The Joining (Dragon Age: Origins - Volume Two)
by The Fly In The Ointment
Summary: Still reeling from the massacre at Highever, Liam Cousland finds himself conscripted into the legendary Order of the Grey Wardens. Along with two fellow recruits, Liam must travel south to the Korcari Wilds, where the first great battle of the Fifth Blight will soon be fought. But Liam's first desire is for vengeance...
1. AUTHOR'S NOTE

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is a continuation of an ongoing novelization of the video game Dragon Age: Origins, written for my wife – who loves to read, and loves fantasy stories, but can't play video games.

You can find Volume 1, The Fall of House Cousland, by clicking on the author link. This series is my only work, so it shouldn't be hard to find.

Feedback – including critiques, critcisism, and nitpicks re: Dragon Age lore – are always welcome.


	2. Anger Like That

**DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS**

VOLUME TWO: The Joining

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 **CODEX: The Calendar of Thedas**

For most good folk, the details of our calendar have little purpose. It is useful only for telling them when the Summerday festival will be held, when the snows are expected to begin, and when the harvest must be complete. The naming of the years is a matter for historians and taxmen, and few if pressed could even tell you the reason that our current Age is named after dragons.

It is 9:30 Dragon Age, the thirtieth year of the ninth Age since the crowning of the Chantry's first Divine.

Each Age is exactly 100 years, with the next Age's name chosen in the 99th year. The scholars in Val Royeaux advise the Chantry of portents seen in that 99th year, and Chantry authorities pore over the research for months before the Divine announces the name of the imminent Age. The name is said to be an omen of what is to come, of what the people of Thedas will face for the next hundred years.

The current Age was not meant to be the Dragon Age. Throughout the last months of the Blessed Age, the Chantry was preparing to declare the Sun Age, named for the symbol of the Orlesian Empire, which at that time sprawled over much of the south of Thedas and controlled both Ferelden and what is now Nevarra. It was to be a celebration of Orlesian imperial glory.

But as the rebellion in Ferelden reached a head and the Battle of the River Dane was about to begin, a peculiar event occurred: a rampage, the rising of a dreaded high dragon. Dragons had been thought practically extinct since the days of the Nevarran dragon hunts, and they say that to see this great beast rise from the Frostback Mountains was both majestic and terrifying. As the rampage began and the high dragon decimated the countryside in its search for food, the elderly Divine Faustine II abruptly declared the Dragon Age.

Some say the Divine was declaring support for Orlais in the battle against Ferelden, since the dragon is an element of the Dufayel family heraldry of King Meghren, the so-called Usurper King of Ferelden. Be that as it may, the high dragon's rampage turned towards the Orlesian side of the Frostback Mountains, killing hundreds and sending thousands more fleeing to the northern coast. The Ferelden rebels won the Battle of River Dane, ultimately securing their independence.

Many thus think that the Dragon Age will come to represent a time of violent and dramatic change for all of Thedas. It remains to be seen.

Excerpted from "The Studious Theologian"

by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

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 **CHAPTER ONE:** That Kind of Anger, It'll Keep a Man Alive

 **A magnificent sunrise marks the beginning of the fourth day since Highever fell.** At least, I think it today will be the fourth. I have to listen carefully to the others as they share a spare breakfast of stale bread and cold stew, left over from last night's dinner, to be sure.

When I was seven, I was taken by a fever, and for days I lay in my bed, unsure whether it was night or day. Later, when I was older, Mother told me that she did not know if I would live. She and Nan were beside me almost every moment, along with the apothecary and the family servants. I remember their hands cool on my cheeks, their voices comforting in my ear, and the lilting verses of the Chant sung by one of the sisters, but I also remember things that did not happen – a wolf standing over the foot of my bed, regarding me sternly, or the tapestry on my wall coming to life, the knights speaking to me and demanding my help in vanquishing a river monster. Soaked in sweat, I tried to rise more than once, afraid I was late for lessons with Brother Aldous, even though it was summertime, and lessons were suspended.

Looking back on our journey so far, I am reminded of nothing so much of those fever dreams. Everything seems surreal, as if my consciousness is again flitting between reality and fantasy. Time stretches unnaturally in my mind, like an endless hallway reflected through a mirror that's been warped and cracked. Lost in my own head, by turns chasing and fleeing from my thoughts, I've often blinked and found my trousers are soaked from the knee down, but had no recollection of fording a river, or felt my horse lurch to a halt unbidden and noticed Duncan signaling a stop, and had to check the sun to tell whether we are pausing to rest the horses from the afternoon heat, or stopping to make camp for the night.

It's ironic, then, that this is the sort of morning that feels almost indescribably real. Although its early yet, the sun barely cresting the eastern horizon, I can tell it'll be another day of clear skies and scorching heat. The air tastes crisp and fresh, still cool before the day's heat begins, but it also carries the faintest whiff of the sea, briny and familiar. A gentle winds brush through the leaves of the great oak tree that sheltered us overnight, and in its branches, a squirrel chitters. A solitary crow circles in the pale blue sky, over fields full of buzzing crickets. It's all in stark contrast to the dreamlike state in which I've found myself the last few days.

Further anchoring me to the moment is the way my body aches. Bedding down on hard earth, not to mention the odd rock of root, has left me stiff, but the feeling isn't unpleasant. If anything, it's nostalgic, maybe even comforting, reminding me of hunting trips in my youth. Less pleasant are the bruises from the fighting at Highever, which have not yet faded, and the newer welts and scabs that I've earned during the sword drills Duncan forces on us every evening. The worst pain, though, is in my jaw, which throbs, the gums still raw where Ser Randolph knocked out two of my teeth.

Around me, my companions are packing up as well, pots and pans banging together as Alistair loads them, leather creaking as Jory tightens the belts of his breastplate. I hurry to catch up, rolling my rough blankets tightly and strapping them to the back of my saddle.

Nearby, Daveth hisses in pain, and I turn to watch as he pulls himself into his saddle with some effort. Daveth is the cutpurse Duncan referred to as an example when, in Father's great hall, he first tried to recruit me, and explained that the Order seeks individuals of many talents, not warriors alone. Indeed, Daveth is quick on his feet and quicker with a knife, but he has no experience with a sword, and has gotten the worst of the evening exercises. We use wooden training blades, but they still leave nasty welts, and can open a deep enough gash if you're unlucky or inexperienced.

"You all right?" I ask, and Daveth seems surprised by my voice.

Upright in his saddle now, he twists and offers me a crooked grin. Gingerly, he brushes the swollen skin around a cut on his forehead. "Reckon I've had worse," he says. "Puts a damper on my good looks, though, don't it?"

His enunciation and turn of phrase mark him as working class, but his accent is tough to pinpoint: half southerling farmer, half city peasant. Certainly an odd blend. His complexion, too, is ambiguous, I can't tell if his skin is naturally dark, or he's simply spent most of his life under the sun.

"Won't be many lasses where we're headed, I don't suppose," he continues, "so I'll not fret too hard over it. Do wish these damned stripes would heal quicker, though." Daveth leans his head forward, so I can see raised welts the dark skin of his neck. "Go all the way down my back. Makes sleeping quite the bitch, let me tell you. Not sure I'm too fond of swords, after all this. Good old knife, or a bow if I have to."

"Me too," I reply, surprising myself. "Even a short sword. I'm no good with longswords."

"Damn sight better than me, though," he says, and chuckles, then winces and rolls his head from side to side. "Fucking tired, too," he says. "Watch last night seemed like it'd never end."

With no small rush of guilt, I realize that I've not yet been asked to take a watch. Every night, Alistair stays up when the rest of us bed down, and every morning, when I'm shaken awake, one of the others is already fully dressed, alert, wearing their weapons. Yet I've been permitted to sleep the nights through. It's a kindness, I suppose, but not one I asked for.

I'm tempted to ask myself how I could have missed this, but I already know the answer. I've missed nearly everything the last few days. They've passed me by in a fog, and few memories that remain are hazy at best – vague impressions.

Instead, I've bene preoccupied with earlier memories – memories that form and reform in my mind's eye with a harsh, crystalline clarity, their edges so sharp that they might be broken glass. Everything that happened in Highever, from the crack of wood when the assassins kicked in my door to the last look over my shoulder, as my city burned in pre-dawn darkness – it all plays over and over, a horror story threatening to consume my every waking moment.

The doubt is crippling. Mile by mile, I have fought for my own sanity, battling against the insidious whispers that I could have done something, anything, differently. I think of Aeron – my best friend – my brother, more truly than even Fergus – selling his life alone at the gates. I think of Mother – who I could have carried with me against her will. I think of the guards I sent to reinforce the front gate – men I could have brought with me from the great hall to the kitchen, men whose swords might have saved Iona's life in the staircase.

Worse still is hope. Foolish, desperate hope that whispers to me – telling me that perhaps my parents yet live – telling me that I was wrong, and that Iona's death rattle was only a gasp – that Aeron escaped Howe's treachery at the gates – that those I love remain alive. More than once, in the grip of these mad fancies, it has been all I could do not to turn my horse back toward Highever, to rescue those I've convinced myself may yet wait for me. And each time that my senses reassert themselves, and I continue on after Duncan and the others, a sliver of hope remains, accusing me of abandoning loved ones who still draw breathe, who desperately need my help.

And yet there is worry enough for those who are truly still alive. For the rest of my life, I will never forget the wrenching in my heart when Duncan told me to bid farewell to Nan and Oren. With my nephew's tiny, bloody body in my arms, all my resolve wavered, all my promises to Father and all the plans hatched with the Wardens and the elves fading. How could I leave the last of my kin, unconscious, the wounds still fresh on his tiny body?

But Iona had trusted the elven hahren, Sarethia, and so I chose to trust her, too, in Iona's memory. The kitchen servant, Varren, swore he would sell his life in Oren's defense, as did the other elves who had come to our aid in the keep. All had proven their courage, had they not? My choice was the right one, I think. And yet I have no way of knowing for certain, and no hope of certainty at any time in the next weeks or even months, and that leaves just enough room for the doubt.

No matter how I focus on the reigns in my hand, or the trail in front of me – no matter how tired I am, how sore from riding, how heartsick with thoughts of those I know are lost – doubt creeps in, slithering through the edges of my consciousness, corrupting every plan, every glimmer of hope, every reassurance my mind I muster.

When I force myself to think, really think, I can turn my will against the doubt, and push it back long enough to examine my decisions, and recognize they were the best I could have made in the moments I made them. That much I know, and this knowledge is my anchor in the storm. It's been enough to keep me sane, mostly, and enough to stave off the darker thoughts, the despair, the lure toward death, although, to my shame, I did think, once, to end it all...

...

 **It was during the first day of our journey,** perhaps six hours after leaving the Alienage. The sun was up, hot on our backs, and our horses were beginning to weary. We had been riding across fields and through thickets rather than following roads, in hopes of confounding any pursuit.

We rested only once, on the rocky bank of a creek. As my horse drank her fill, and Madra flopped across the cool river rock, her head beside my knee, Alistair offered to refill my waterskin. As he already had an armful of waterskins, I nodded, and managed to choke out a thank you, before passing him my skin.

"Oh," he said after taking it, and then repeated himself. "Oh."

I stared at him, wondering if he was approaching a point.

"It's, um, it's _full_ ," he said at last.

I held my hand out to take it back. "Haven't been thirsty."

No sooner had I spoken than my parched mouth made a liar of me. It was so dry it might have been coated in dust, and even the few words I had managed felt like someone was dragging shards of glass up the inside my throat.

"Oh," Alistair repeated again, ignoring my outstretched hand. "I'll just…fill it up again, I guess. Freshen it right up."

This was patently absurd. The waterskins had been gifted to us by Hahren Sarethia, along with our horses, and were clearly made by a skilled tanner, and had been filled from the city wells before our rushed departure. The notion that the water might have spoiled was ludicrous, but even if it hadn't been, I was suddenly, painfully aware of my thirst, and again held my hand out for the waterskin.

Alistair turned, though, and trotted away across the smooth rocks, oblivious to my thirst, or perhaps ignoring me deliberately, intending to show Duncan my full waterskin. I almost called out, asked him to bring back the skin. But then I realized that even if I could muster the strength to do so, I just didn't care.

I'd felt the same way when we stopped. My legs and back were numb from hours spent in the saddle, but there had been no rush of relief when Duncan ordered the halt. My companions immediately pulled food from their saddlebags, and mine were similarly packed, and I could tell I was hungry – my stomach was almost on fire, in fact – but there was no spark of interest in eating.

My grief was crushing me, pushing out every other sensation, even those as base and tangible as pain, and hunger, and thirst. For miles and miles, I'd wept after leaving Highever, forcing composure on myself only when the dawn's light became too bright, threatening to reveal my weakness. Even now, pride was the only thing holding back my tears.

Madra must have sensed my anguish, as she twisted her head so her nose bumped my knee, and whined once. Her big brown eyes were fixed on my face, gently reproachful, but also comforting. She wiggled closer, nuzzling her enormous skull against my thigh.

"Oh, girl," I whispered, and just those few words raised a lump in my throat. My eyes burnt and my vision swam, and I swiped with my arm to dash away any signs of my weakness. Not sure what else to say or do, I began to pet her between her tiny, pointed ears. She didn't look away from my face, but her eyes closed slowly, and her tongue lolled from her mouth.

"It's all right, girl," I told her, though I didn't believe it myself.

My poor hound was exhausted. She'd kept up with us all morning, at least fifteen miles across rugged terrain. She had no strength to lend me. I should have left her with Oren. She'd have kept him safe, and she'd have been safer herself. Letting her accompany me was selfish, I realized.

I'd failed even Madra.

As this thought took hold, even my pride gave way, and I would have wept openly if I were able. But no tears came, because I simply didn't have the strength. So I was left with nothing - no distraction, no release – nothing but my thoughts. And as I stared my own brokenness full in the face, I came to a false understanding: continuing on was futile.

If Oren needed me, I told myself, I would have remained in Highever.

If Fergus needed warning, I told myself, then surely the Wardens would pass on my message.

If Duncan truly needed me, I told myself, then his cause was already lost. I could not defend my love, nor save my parents, nor fight beside my best friend. What help, then, could I be in saving my people from a Blight?

If there were a Maker after all, then surely Iona and my family were already in His divine embrace. And if I was right, and there were no God in the skies, then those I loved were lost to me forever.

Either way, I resolved, there was nothing left but to follow them into the dark.

...

 **My chance came soon enough.** After mounting our horses, we followed the creek in a southwesterly direction, until the hills began to grow on either side and the water quickened its pace. After perhaps an hour, we came to the crest of a small waterfall, the drop sharp but not long, water crashing down perhaps fifteen feet to foam in a deep pool. There, the creek turned abruptly north, down toward the coastal lowlands.

After a brief pause, Duncan motioned that we should follow a dirt track up from the bank. The path was narrow, cut into the side of a steep hill, just wide enough for the horses to climb in single file. Within a few hundred yards, we had risen well above the waterfall. Just twisting my horse's reins to the right would be enough, sending the mare tumbling almost straight down. With any luck, I'd be crushed beneath the horse's weight before I was halfway to the pool, but if that didn't work, I'd certainly hit the rocks with enough force to put the world behind me.

A pang of guilt at condemning my mount to die with me was all that stayed my hand. Surely it would be enough to simply throw myself from the saddle?

Hoping none of the others would notice, I slipped my left foot from the stirrup. If I pulled the knee up toward my chest, I could get a solid footing on the saddle, and use that and the right stirrup to throw myself out into space.

My pack, however, contained salves and bandages provided us by Hahren Sarethia. In addition to the waterskins and weapons we all carried, each had been assigned a specific set of supplies – food, arrows, cooking tools and herbs, kindling and flint. We all needed what the others carried, and if I took the leap, my companions would be left without medicine.

Could I slip free from my pack before I was observed, and toss it to the ground, then?

And what about the Cousland sword? If I passed, it would be Fergus' birthright – and Oren's, too. Would the others carry it south with them? Would they even know it should go to Fergus?

With a start, I realized I should also ask myself about Madra. The guilt I'd felt for considering taking my horse with me was nothing compared to what I felt then. We Fereldens like to say that Mabari choose their masters, not the other way around. It's just a saying, of course, but there's truth in it all the same. A hound that bonds from its youth with a master is bonded for life, and such a bond is the very essence of loyalty.

Even if Madra didn't leap after me immediately, seeking to stay my fall, she would certainly be heartbroken. To hear of a Mabari wasting away to death beside its master's grave is common.

Letting her accompany me had not been a failure, I recognized: she would have accepted no other path. The only failure would be to abandon her now.

Heat spread across my face, and I could feel blood pounding in my ears, and I knew I was turning red from the hollow of my throat to the crown of my head. Although no one else could have any idea of the cowardice I'd almost embraced, the selfish escape I'd sought, I could not hide from my own shame.

I looked down at the reins in my hands, hoping to hide my flushed face, as I slipped my left foot back into the stirrup, and did not think to end my life again.

...

 **That first night, the sparring caught me by surprise.** Daveth and Jory attacked each other with wooden training swords almost as soon as they dismounted, without any prompt or any warning. I watched them for a moment before deciding this must be some tradition of theirs and lost interest. With Madra already asleep, I began to unpack my bedroll and lay out blankets beside her.

"Not yet," Duncan said, surprising me, not least because I hadn't heard him approach. "Alistair will see to your Hound."

I straightened up and stared at the Grey Warden commander, uncomprehending.

"You'll step in for Daveth in a moment," Duncan explained conversationally, and handed me a wooden longsword.

As best I could recall, these were his first words to me since leaving Highever, although I was so dazed that we might very well have carried on lengthy conversations during the day's ride and I would not have recalled them. His meaning sunk in only slowly, and as it did, indignation rose within me, followed immediately by bitterness.

My arm still throbbed where Howe's assassin had struck me with his sword's pommel, and I could feel tender bruises ringing the bottom of my neck, where Ser Randolph had choked me nearly to death. I was missing teeth, I was exhausted, and above all, I was more heartsick than I could have imagined. Who did Duncan think he was, demanding I fight again after a day that had lasted nearly twenty-four hours, a day that had already seen battle enough, a day that had born witness to so much loss.

For a moment, I glowered at him, but he looked back at me, his dark eyes at once hard and kind. Then he smiled, although this mouth barely moved, and although it wasn't a cheerful smile by any means, it was not unfriendly.

"Each of you must train," he told me, quietly. "Every night, even this one. I fear we haven't much time before you will all be put to the test. We must use what little we have."

Truthfully, I'm not sure how or why I bit back the retorts that rose within me, but I'm glad I did. I found welcome simplicity in the focus on a singular opponent, in the familiar rhythms of mock combat and the crack of wooden blades.

I went to bed that night and every one after truly exhausted, asleep before I could even settle my head on my pack, the fear and guilt that haunted me throughout the day forgotten in my weariness. Though my days were spent in waking nightmares, if dreams troubled me while my spirit wandered the Fade in the night, I was not aware of them when I woke, and so in sleep, at least, there was peace.

...

 **It would not surprise me to learn this was Duncan's intent.** I do not know what to make of the Grey Warden commander, but it is increasingly apparent that his every act has a purpose, and often more than one. Though he rarely consults maps, he must have chosen our route carefully, as we encountered no more than the odd farmer on our journey, and come nowhere near even the smallest of villages.

We made good time for riding cross-country, riding as long and hard as we dared push the horses, stopping for a few hours in the heat of the afternoon. Although we mostly followed creeks and rivers, and were never far from water, there were few trees and no clouds, and by late morning the fields and farms we crossed felt like they might as well have been the insides of a great oven.

Even without the heat, the riding alone was physically taxing. I'd never spent so much time in the saddle, and my entire back, shoulders to ankles, protested from the long hours in the saddle. I found myself tired in other ways, too, trapped as I was by my own thoughts. The others talked amongst themselves, but I paid no attention, and although Alistair would occasionally offer his help with some small task, or ask for mine, they seemed reluctant to speak to me.

This was fine with me, too. My thoughts were hardly a refuge, but they were preferable to forced pleasantries with companions I didn't yet know. Nothing against them, but I just want to be left alone.

Jory was the only one who tried to talk to me about what had happened in Highever. It happened sometime in the second day, and I knew it was coming even before he broached the subject. I'd be lost in my thoughts and suddenly realize he was riding beside me, staring at me. To the extent that I gave it any thought, I hoped he would leave whatever was on his mind unsaid. I barely knew the man, and dreaded any condolences he might feel compelled to offer.

I was disappointed, then, but not surprised, when he rode up beside me with a determined expression and cleared his throat meaningfully.

"We shall see them avenged," he said, without waiting for any acknowledgement. His tone was stilted, rehearsed even, as though he were on a podium, reading from a proclamation. "My aunt. And your family."

I don't think I said anything in reply. Maybe I nodded, but nothing more.

"If you ask me," he continued after a moment of silence, "we are lucky, you and I, to have been spared. I believe we are spared for a purpose. To face the darkspawn scourge, yes, if we are lucky enough to actually join the Wardens, _that_ is the most obvious purpose – but also to be sure that Arl Howe pays the blood price. Of that, you have my promise as a knight."

No doubt his words were well-intentioned, but with every sound that passed his lips, I felt resentment building to rage inside me.

"Until then, though," he went on, "I think you and I must set aside our grief, if we can. It will be difficult, to be sure, but we are men, after all, and born to nobility at that!"

Only with great effort did I resist the urge to lash out at the pompous ass; vicious words danced at the tip of my tongue, daring me to cow him into silence or provoke him to rage of his own.

"You know," he said, slowly, deliberately, as though the thought had only just come to him. "As a boy, my mother told us that darkspawn hunted down all the children who misbehaved. It's a foolish superstition, of course, but I still shiver when I think of fighting them. Old wives' tales aside, they are truly an abomination – or so I am told – and you and I, we will surely need all our wits about us if we are to face them."

That was the breaking point, and I felt my head snap up, but when I turned to face the bastard, I found Alistair between us, has back to me, his horse keeping even pace with mine.

"What incredibly sage advice," Alistair said acidly, and although I couldn't see his face, I could tell he must be glaring at Jory. "It's just, you _might_ want to work on your timing, _just_ a little."

"It was hardly my intent –" Jory began indignantly, but he was cut off.

"No, _Recruit_ Jory, I'm _sure_ wasn't," Alistair said archly, almost lazily.

Over Alistair's shoulder, I could see Jory's face waging war with itself. He wasn't sure whether to take umbrage at being reprimanded by a much younger man, or to acknowledge Alistair's unsubtle reminder of Jory's position in the Grey Warden's chain of command, which I assumed was, like mine and Daveth's, somewhere well below the bottom.

Apparently, the latter instinct won out, no doubt a testament to Jory's training as a knight – or perhaps his adulation of the Wardens. He bowed his head slightly to Alistair, his expression going slack. "My apologies. I only meant to say – well, we have both lost loved ones."

"Maybe that's what you meant," Alistair replied, "but what you _did_ was put your foot in your mouth, without good reason." Then, seeming to relent a bit, he added, "Trust me on that, I know when it's happening – I'm quite used to saying the wrong things myself. Tell you what, why don't you ride with me for a while. We can talk about darkspawn, or trade stew recipes, or argue about religion. Or… whatever it is that people do when they travel together, I'm really not an expert."

"Well... certainly," Jory said, sounding more confused than anything. "If you wish."

Since then, Jory has avoided me entirely, and Daveth as well, preferring either to keep to himself or ride close behind the Wardens. Watching him with them, one gets the impression he'd like to be included in their counsel, but they don't seem ready to grant that honor. As often as not, Duncan and Alistair go silent when he rides too close, so he hangs back, just out of earshot, waiting for an invitation to join them.

...

 **This morning is no different.** As soon as we set out, Jory rides ahead again, guiding his horse into position just behind Alistair and Duncan. It's still early, but sweat is already gleaming on his forehead. His hair, close-shaven when he arrived at Highever, is now a thin brown stubble, and sideburns are beginning to fill in beside his ears and down his cheeks, making his round face appear somewhat pudgy. Judging his stiff posture, it would seem he's no more used to the rigors of such a journey than I, but so far I've heard no complaint. He may be pretentious, but he's no wilting flower, either.

Behind me, Daveth is whistling softly to himself. I could swear I recognize the notes from some tavern or other; it sounds like the sort of song Aeron would've liked, cheerful and cheeky at the same time. Daveth's whistling is quiet, though, almost pensive, missing a few bars here and there – there's a certain amount of wistfulness that's at odd with the notes themselves, like the good times in the song have faded with the passage of years.

This seems a good metaphor for Daveth himself, actually. I get the sense he might have been full of cheer and cheek once, like the tune he's whistling, but that life has worn those qualities away, distilling them into an easygoing pessimism, something between charming and cynical. It's not just the whistling, or the way he talks. I get this impression from his face, too – it's heavily lined, though he can't be more than thirty – and from the way he carries himself – like an animal stuck somewhere in the middle of the food chain, predator and prey all at once.

Then again, it's not like I've made any effort to get to know him, so it's entirely possible I'm reading too much into all this. Right or wrong, however, there's no denying the kindness he's shown Madra, and in my mind, that alone speaks to his character.

...

 **Every day, during the midafternoon break,** my poor, exhausted hound has collapsed unceremoniously beside me and slept soundly for an hour or more. As it's always been, here mere presence, the weight and warmth of her head against my leg, has been a comfort beyond description.

The men who breed and train Mabari like to say the dog choses, not the human, and there's truth to that, although I think really the choosing must be mutual. Whatever the case, since the moment we met, the day Father paid good coin to a renowned breeder and brought her home for me, I could not have asked for a better companion, nor a more loyal friend. Her stolid devotion and unflappable good humor were always easy to appreciate, but I treasure these qualities now more than ever.

Madra is both the only meaningful connection to my life in Highever and my only comfort as I mourn its loss. These last few days, mourning is all I've done. At every stop, and after the evening sparring, and in the early morning light, I've just sat next to her, thankful fate did not steal her along with everything and everyone else. So she has been my rock, the perfect hound, mothering me as much as any dog could.

But I have not repaid her in kind.

I know she doesn't hold it against me. Mabari are known for their keen intelligence, and I have no doubt Madra has some notion of the loss I've endured, an understanding that goes beyond the simple, intuitive grasp on human emotion that most dog's possess. If anything, she may be grieving with me. She loved my family, not the way she loves me, but it was love just the same, and I don't think I'm imagining sorrow in her big, deep eyes.

Even so, it's plain enough she's also aching to just be a _dog_.

As soon as she wakes from her nap and lifts her head from my lap, it's as if all the miles have melted away completely, and she's as full of energy as if she just woke from a good night's sleep with a full belly. She just wants to play, but I've been in no fit state to smile, let alone run or toss a stick.

Yet by some mercy, Daveth has stepped in, and, unwittingly, I think, earned my undying gratitude. I'm not sure if it started the first or second day, but it's already become a tradition: once she wakes, she plays fetch with Daveth until Duncan decides it's time for us to move along. I have a vague recollection that he asked my permission before he threw a stick the first time, the polite thing to do, but even if he didn't, I can hardly hold it against him.

"Good girl, she is," Daveth told me yesterday.

He was standing nearby, waiting for Madra to return with a branch that was just much too big even for a hound her size. He spoke casually, without looking at me.

"Knew quite a few dogs back in Denerim," he went on. "None like her, though. Lot of sad mutts in the alleys, a few curs running in packs. Had to be careful of the packs, they'd as soon tear out a man's throat as look at him. Knew a few Mabari, even, but they all belonged to some lord or lady, took on airs as bad as their masters. Not her, though. She's got a heart of gold, your girl."

Then he turned back to Madra and sank into a squat, talking fast, intentionally mangling his words the way men do when playing with dogs.

"That's a good girl, yes! That's a good girl!"

As Madra spun around his ankles, yipping happily until he hefted the branch again for another throw, I was overwhelmed by gratitude. It should've been me playing with her, but I wasn't up to it. Even though I feel the fog of grief lifting slowly, I don't think I could find any joy in myself if I tried, and that's what Madra needs: just a spark of joy.

...

 **For most of the morning ride,** Madra trots back beside me as we ride, tongue lolling, cheerful as can be. Occasionally, she glances over her shoulder at Daveth, who is at the rear of our column. I assume she's checking to make sure he hasn't wandered off, as she's no doubt already fantasizing about some lunchtime fetch. Ahead of us, Duncan and Alistair ride side by side, with Jory trailing behind hopefully.

We follow the River Dane upstream as it winds lazily between low, sloping hills. Tall trees, mostly oak and alder, grow along the banks, and shade us for much of the morning, a welcome change after the last few days. As we ride, we pass much the time in silence. The occasional birdcall, the water's rush, and the rhythmic beat of the horse's hooves are the only sounds we hear for miles. We see deer and a few rabbits, and the splash of fish, but encounter no sign of any other humans.

Duncan's route is taking us south, away from the Waking Sea, into the sprawling, lowland breadbasket of central Ferelden, a region so vast that it has come to be known simply as The Bannorn. This title is a misnomer, of course, as any land ruled by a bann is called a bannorn – but here there are simply too many freeholds and tiny bannorns in central Ferelden to count, let alone name. Even if one did effect such a count, it would be without purpose: borders change with every harvest and season, almost always by amicable agreement, and each individual lord holds so little power that the region is, for all intents and purposes, a federation of landed farmers rather than an alliance of banns.

Within The Bannorn, there are no major cities, nor even any sizeable towns, and few roads larger than a wagon track. However, the old Imperial Highway bounds The Bannorn on all sides, and crosses the River Dane near Crestwood, a small, heavily-forested territory that belongs to the Ferelden crown. The territory is home to a thriving trading village that shares its name, and also to a castle, Caer Bronach.

I've never visited Caer Bronach, but I know its reputation. Overlooking one of the few dams on the River Dane, it is one of the newest castles in Ferelden, completed barely a century ago, and also home to the largest army garrison in western Ferelden. The castle was commissioned more than a hundred years ago, as a defense against Orlesian aggression, but it fell not long after its completion in 8:26 Blessed, one of the first conquests in the Orlesian war of aggression. It was not liberated from Orlais until Teyrn Loghain routed the last of the Orlesian chevaliers almost eighty years later, at the Battle of the River Dane, in 8:99 Blessed.

Caer Bronach commands a strategic position, between the Waking Sea and Lake Calenhad, and overlooks a spur of the Imperial Highway called the North Road, which runs from the crossroads at Calenhad all the way to Denerim, and forms the border between the Bannorn and my Father's Teyrnir. Or the Teyrnir that was once my Father's, I suppose.

Duncan's goal is to reach Crestwood tonight. Because the territory belongs to the king specifically, Duncan hopes we will find shelter there from any pursuers Howe might have sent. He hopes also to restock our provisions and exchange our weary horses, before striking south along the Highway as it follows the shores of Lake Calenhad through the Bannorn. On the Highway, we could make up lost time, and would likely reach the king at Ostagar in less than three days.

For my part, I wouldn't mind sleeping in a real bed tonight – nor eating a home-cooked meal, washed down with something besides river water. I'm anxious, too, for any news from Highever, which will have spread more quickly than we have travelled.

Then, just before noon, we turn a corner and find a fisherman and his young son on the banks of the river. They have about a dozen lines in, and have already filled a small burlap sack with trout. As the boy gawps at our armor, showing off his missing teeth, the fisherman tells us they hail from a tiny farmhold just outside Crestwood Village.

He's a chatty sort, more than a bit in awe at meeting two actual Grey Wardens, and responds to Duncan's casual request for local news with a veritable torrent of information. Among the excited babbling, however, comes news that the king's garrison at Caer Bronach left for Ostagar several days prior – after being relieved by troops from Amaranthine.

Once we hear this, Alistair and Duncan make hasty excuses, and admonish the man to say nothing of our meeting. He and his son promise to speak to no one, although the assure us their farm is too remote to expect any visitors from the village anytime soon. All the same, Duncan tosses them several silver coins, likely hoping the gifts will buy their silence in case the man's pledge alone is not enough.

After that, we continue south at a brisker pace, keeping to the woods on the eastern side of the river, just out of sight of its banks, in case Howe has agents in the woods. There is no need to ask whether we still plan to shelter in Crestwood, nor of following the Highway. We will cross the Bannorn now, delaying our arrival in Ostagar further, and denying us all any hope of a warm bed.

...

" **If Howe's men occupy Caer Bronach,"** Duncan tells me several miles later, "then it seems we may have underestimated his ambition."

It is the first time he's spoken to me since directing me to spar that first night, and it's certainly the first time I've had any interest in a conversation. Thoughts of Howe have burned away the fog that has haunted me over the last days of travel.

"He's not just trying to take my Father's Teyrnir," I conclude, breathless as the implication sinks in. "Does he mean to be king, do you think?"

Duncan shakes his head slowly. "I doubt he is foolish enough to make an attempt on the throne. More likely, he sees an opportunity to expand the Teyrnir."

I nod, doing my best to think this through. "If he thinks he can hold on to Highever… he'd already have plans to combine it with Amaranthine. Maybe he thinks to add Crestwood, as well?"

"Were that his plan," Ser Jory interjects, "Howe would have to take the West Hills Bannorn, at least."

"That's…Bann Franderel's land, right?"

"Indeed," Jory says. "A man I know well. He and my uncle share a close bond."

"Is he close with Howe, though?" I ask.

"I've no idea," Jory says quickly, and somewhat defensively.

Surprised by his tone, I try to force myself to recall whatever I can about West Hills and Bann Franderel. Maker knows I spent enough time memorizing borders and alliances and genealogies. It comes to me slowly: the lands belonging to Jory's uncle, Bann Loren, shares borders with Highever, West Hills and the Crestwood Territory. If Arl Howe's reach extends as we are suggesting, than Jory's family lands are surrounded on three sides, and will likely be in jeopardy as well.

Further, I recall that Bann Loren is close friends with Arl Howe. Whenever Lady Landra hosted a party at Caer Oswin, Bann Loren was never far from Howe. Of course, Howe's dearest friend was said to be my father, and that had clearly meant nothing in the end. Would Bann Loren fall prey to similar treachery? Or would he side with Howe willingly, pledging his allegiance to a new Teyrn? And if he submits, will he do so in ignorance, or is he complicit in my family's slaughter?

As much as Jory grates on me, I suppose it's a testament to his character that I don't question Jory's loyalty, too. Maybe I should. Trust is clearly a commodity my family can ill afford, and Jory, relative to a friend of Howe's, came to Highever on the eve of the treachery.

"Howe has already shown himself a coward," Duncan says. "He moved against your father only when the advantage was clearly his, and even then, it was only with assassins and apostates at his side. If he does intend to take more than he already has, any arls or banns in his way will be in Ostagar, unable to defend their keepings, or will already be his allies, ready to tell whatever tale he requires."

This echoes what I'm already thinking, and yet I still cannot bring myself to mistrust Jory. The man strikes me as too honorable – and also too simple – to engage in a plot of any kind, let alone one as intricate and shameful as that Howe has perpetrated.

"Then I fear for my uncle's safety," Jory says rather stiffly, and I wonder if he is privately entertaining the same doubts about Bann Loren that I am. "He would have no part of Howe's plan, if he learned it."

"I fear _our_ safety," Duncan says, sidestepping the issue. "Any of Howe's agents traveling by Highway will have reached Ostagar ahead of us, and alerted any who are loyal to him along the way. We cannot trust any safe haven, in Crestwood or otherwise, until we reach Cailan."

"Can we even trust the king?" I ask tentatively.

Even in the midst of my rage at Howe, I'm reluctant to give voice to this concern, which could itself be considered treason in its own right. But the possibility cannot be ignored: no matter how carefully he has schemed, eventually Howe will need the king's support if he hopes to consolidate so much territory into a new Teyrnir. We must consider the possibility that he already has royal support.

"If we cannot trust Cailan, we are doomed already," Duncan answers. "But I know the king, and I cannot believe he would be a part of this."

"Nor I," Alistair says, and I'm surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"And I haven't a bleeding clue," Daveth pipes up. "For whatever that's worth."

...

 **Due no doubt to the fisherman's news,** we forego our afternoon rest, stopping only long enough to water the horses. Madra is not pleased to be woken early from her nap, nor to miss her game of fetch, and for the first time on the journey, I'm genuinely worried she might not be able to keep up.

Perhaps an hour later, we turn west, away from the river, putting it between ourselves and Crestwood Territory. This new path takes us through rolling fields of tall grass, rising as high as the horse's knees on either side of the trail. I keep a close eye on Madra, who I've directed to walk ahead of my horse. This way, at least, I'll be sure to see if she passes out, though I don't know what I'll do if this happens. I suppose I could try to strap her to my saddle?

"She'll be all right, I reckon," Daveth says, nodding at Madra. Apparently I'm easy to read.

"I hope so," I reply, and for a while, we say nothing else, riding side-by-side behind my loyal hound.

Eventually, though, I surprise myself by asking Daveth where he's from.

"Me?"

He looks as surprised to hear my question as I am to have asked it.

I nod. Although I'm a bit hesitant, I do feel as though I'm finally ready for a talk with another person.

"Well," he says, "blimey, where to even start? Guess I grew up in a village, 'bout a day's trip east of Ostagar, actually. Barely a village, really, little bump on a hill that you'd not find on any map. Haven't been back in years – haven't even been this far south in years, now I think of it. Struck out for the city as soon as I count outrun my pa. Been in Denerim for, what… six years now? Bloody hell, six years? Time flies, eh? Never much liked it there – Denerim I mean – but there's more coin to be found there than any place else."

At this, Daveth winks, and falls silent.

"So…" I begin after a few moments, finding myself a bit disconcerted to recall that conversations require two participants.

"So, you're a cut purse?" I ask at last, with all the delicacy of a rampaging boar.

If she could hear me, Mother would box my ears for asking such a forward question. Thankfully, Daveth seems not the sort to take offense.

"That I am," he answers cheerfully. "And a rather good one, if you'll take my word for it. _And_ a pickpocket, thank you very much, although that's a smidge harder worker. Well, should say I _was_ a cut purse and pickpocket. No longer." He chuckles, shakes his head. "Who'd ever guess _I'd_ end up a Grey Warden? World's full of mysteries, ain't it?"

"So," I say, resolved to take more care with my words, "how did you come to the Grey Wardens?"

He chuckles again and glances at me sideways. "You don't recall?"

This flummoxes me. "Beg pardon?" I say.

His chuckle becomes a laugh. "Think I've told you already, twice at least. We talked for a good solid hour, me and you. Yesterday or the day before"

"I – are you sure?" I ask, taken aback. "I don't…. I don't remember…"

"Don't worry over it none," he says. "You've got a heavy load on you. Plenty else to think on besides me."

"I – I'm sorry," I repeat.

"Don't be. _I'm_ sorry, shouldn't have said nothing about it. You just – well, never mind that. You just seem more yourself today, not that I really know who _yourself_ would be, mind." It's Daveth's turn to grasp for the right words, and he opens his mouth several times without saying anything before throwing up his free hand and laughing. "Andraste's great white ass, I've not a bleedin' clue what I'm talking about."

"It's fine, really," I reply, smiling. "Would you, uh…would you mind telling me once more, though?"

"Oh, I'm always happy to talk! 'Bout myself, especially. Talk your ear off if you let me. So, what was it? Oh, yeah, the Wardens. Let's see, maybe a little less than two weeks ago, it was. They didn't find me so much as I found them. I, ah," he pauses, smirks. "I cut Duncan's purse while he were standing in a crowd, there in the Denerim market. He grabs my wrist, see, but I squirm out and bolt. Old bugger can run, turns out, but I can run faster. Was the garrison caught me first. I'm a wanted man in Denerim, I'm afraid, and fresh out of second chances. They were set to string me up right there."

He makes a choking face, lolling his tongue out one side of his mouth, and cocks his head to the side while tugging an imaginary rope with his free hand.

"What happened, then?" I ask, although I think I know. Perhaps I'm beginning to recall his earlier telling, or perhaps I'm recalling something Duncan told me in Father's great hall. Either way, it's coming back.

"Duncan stopped them, didn't he? Invoked the _Right of Conscription,_ or some such. The sergeant who caught me, Kylon, he didn't put up much of a fight, neither. Always liked him, the sergeant. Fair man. Saluted him while I was walkin' away, but gave the rest of the guard the salute with just one finger, you know? Anyway, don't know why Duncan wants someone like me, but he says to me, 'Finesse is important,' and also tells me I'm fast with a blade. You bet your boots I am that, at least. Rubbish with a sword, as you've seen, but like lightening with my knife."

"What do you think of him?" I ask. "Duncan, I mean."

Daveth takes his time before answering. "All right for an old bugger," he says at last. "Faster than he looks, too. Reckon I owe him, anyhow."

It's not exactly an answer, but I don't press for more, not least because I don't know how I'd answer if the question is turned back on me.

"Was headed for a bad end," Daveth continues. "Even if they didn't catch me that day, it woulda' been another. Noose was already fitted for my neck, if you know what I mean. Just waiting for me to put my head through, you know? At least this way, even if some darkspawn eats my face, I'll be able to say I died _for_ something, you know?"

I nod.

"How about you?" he asks, lowering his voice and glancing ahead at Jory and the Wardens. "You don't mind me asking, but, uh, well…you know I was there when Duncan got you to pledge yourself? A bloke could be forgiven if he was just to say what needed to be said, to save his little nephew and get a chance at warning his brother."

That very question has been nagging at the edge of my self-pity for days now, and I'm no closer to making my mind up about the Warden than when he first pressed me into service as my Father bled out beside me.

"I gave Duncan my word," I answer slowly. "So if he wants me to kill darkspawn, that's what I'll do. Like you say, it's a worthy cause, if ever there was one. But if I see Howe?" I shake my head, and I can feel my jaw tense, my eyes narrow. I have to bite my tongue, because I'm not sure where I'm going, or what I'll say next.

"Reckon that's fair enough," Daveth says. "Nobody could blame you, even if you let that old Archdemon get away to get your hands on Howe. No man would do different, I don't expect."

I nod, my jaw still clenched. "If I see Howe, I'll cut his fucking throat," I say, and I'm surprised by how good it feels to say this aloud. Then the rage carries my words away from me, before I can stop them. "I'll cut his fucking throat, and then I'll watch him bleed out on the ground, and I'll spit in his fucking eye, and I'll make sure his body doesn't burn, either. The rot can take him, or dogs, or demons. He'll find no honor, not even in death, not if I have my way."

In my anger, I've let my voice rise too high. I can see Alistair and Jory have both turned in their saddles: Jory looks surprised, and Alistair a bit impressed. Duncan is still riding with his back to us, but I'd be shocked if he weren't listening. For some reason, his lack of a reaction infuriates me.

"I'll tell Duncan the same," I say, struggling to keep the brunt of my anger out of my voice. "If he asks."

Ahead of me, still without turning, Duncan simply nods.

I deflate.

I don't know what I'd hoped for. An argument? Agreement? A pledge of support? A command to remember my place?

Whatever I expected, it was not silence.

Slightly ashamed of my outburst, I sink into silence, and my indignation begins to fade – but the rage, the ball of pitch-black hatred for Howe, simmering at the core of my grief the past four days, rises in its place.

"That anger," Daveth says, even more quietly than before, so soft I can barely hear him, so that I'm sure the other three can't even hear a murmur. "Hang onto that," he whispers. "That kind of anger, it'll keep a man alive. Seen it more than once myself – seen men survive wounds would kill most, just living on nothing but anger, you know?"

"I've seen the same," Duncan says, loud enough for us to hear him clearly, still without turning.

I see Jory and Alistair cast odd glances at Duncan. Clearly, they didn't hear Daveth's whisper; how Duncan did is beyond my ability to guess. For his part, Daveth literally startles, jerkin gin his saddle.

"Then again," Duncan continues, "I've also seen it kill its host. Anger like that is a formidable weapon, but I would caution the one who wields it to have a care, lest he find himself a victim of his own weapon."

Eyes wide, Daveth looks from me to Duncan, then back. "Keen ears, he's got."

"Indeed, I do," Duncan calls back, and I think I can hear a smile in his voice.

Even if I wanted to, I'm not sure what answer I would give to Duncan's implication.

...

 **Until sunset, I again lose myself again in thought.** Most of all, I think on Rendon Howe, trying to guess what his plan may be, speculating at his motivation, and feeding my hatred with every possibility. But I also think on Daveth's words, and Duncan's. One would cancel me to cherish my anger, to use it as a weapon; the other warns me it is a cancer. There's likely truth in both perspectives.

Brother Aldous liked to say that every emotion – hate, love, guilt, sorrow, joy, lust – that all had their place and purpose. He also liked to say that the truest test of a man's character is in how well we keep these feelings to their rightful purposes. It's a deeper question than I can answer now, if even I cared to – but I don't. Whether it is right or not, Daveth's path is the one laid before me.

Until Howe pays in blood for the lives he stole, there can be no letting go.

History is replete with men and women who chased after vengeance and, in so doing, accomplished feats and wonders we still speak of centuries later. Many claim King Cailan's father, Maric, toppled the Orlesian occupation solely in retribution for the murder of his mother by Orlesian sympathizers. The Avvar tribes will cross continents to satisfy blood debts. And Dane the Alamarri, among the oldest and perhaps the greatest of Ferelden's folk heroes, is said to have killed a dragon in single combat in retribution for the death of a lover.

And me? I've no wish to topple nations, nor to move peoples, nor even to slay dragons: all I want is the blood of one man. A modest enough goal, I think – and if I am so weak to be consumed in the task, as Duncan seemed to warn, then so be it.

In the midst of these heavier thoughts, there are other, more mundane concerns, as well.

Madra, for one, weighs heavy on my mind. She is panting, her chest heaving. The journey so far has been hard enough, even with the long afternoon rests we've taken on past days; today, we have ridden hard since breakfast, and show no signs of slowing until nightfall. She is beginning to lag, and for all her grit, I know she will not be able to keep up if we do not slow our pace tomorrow.

Also nagging at me is this morning's realization about the night watches. The others have spared me the duty since we left Highever, and I haven't even noticed. They meant this as a kindness, and I'm choosing to take it as such, but I'll not be catered to. I would not stand for it as a deference to my noble birth, and I will not stand for it as an act of pity, either.

No matter how tired I am, tonight I will stand watch – and, if need be, find a way to fashion a saddle for Madra, as well.

...

 **The harsh tones of raised voices snap me back to reality.** Daveth has fallen back behind me, and is chatting amicably with Alistair, but ahead, Jory rides beside Duncan. They've been arguing for some time, I realize, the disagreement building slowly.

Since skirting past Crestwood, we have been passing through the farmlands of the Oswin Bannorn, and we cannot be far from Caer Oswin. Bann Loren is too old to have ridden to war; he is almost certainly at his castle, and likely still unaware of Landra's death, so I understand Jory's desire to visit his uncle – to say nothing of his wife and child, who also call Caer Oswin home.

Jory first suggested making for Caer Oswin after not long after we encountered the fishermen. Duncan refused him, I suspect because Duncan is as reluctant as I am to trust Bann Loren.

As the day has pressed on, however, Jory has not dropped the issue, instead growing more and more insistent. Now, as the sun begins to fall away behind the peaks of the Frostback mountain range, it seems voices are rising and tempers flaring. Jory snaps something, loud enough to startle Madra into looking up from the dirt beneath her nose. I'm not sure what it is, but I know I caught the words "rest" and "castle."

"My answer is clear," Duncan replies testily, and I don't have to strain to hear his words.

From the back of our little column, Alistair spurs his horse forward. Whether he expects trouble or hopes to mediate, I'm not sure. The latter seems more likely, as I've noticed Alistair tends to fall naturally into the role of peacekeeper. Perhaps this is not surprise, as Daveth has told me Alistair trained as a Templar before joining the Wardens.

"But _my uncle_ –" Jory begins again, and from his tone I can tell he is becoming really incensed.

"Is close friends with Arl Howe, is he not?" Duncan interrupts.

"He would never–"

"And he is no friend of the Wardens," Duncan continues, talking over Jory. "I have no doubt he would break with Howe if he knew the truth about his wife's death, but there is little chance he would believe our tale, even if we reached him. Certainly, he would not give us his aid without investigating our story, and we can afford neither the risk nor the delay."

"You impugn my family's honor with your suspicions, _ser!_ "  
"That is not my intent," Duncan says, his voice calm, but also ice cold. "But if I have, it is no longer any concern of yours, Ser Jory. You are pledged to the Grey Wardens, not to the Oswin Bannorn, nor to the Loren line. You would do well to remember your oath."

I'm too far back to see for sure, but it looks like Jory is sputtering and glaring. Eventually, he seems to assent, nodding once, but when he says "Aye, I understand," it sounds more than a bit surly. "I'll not forget my place again. I was only trying to help us reach our goal safely."

"We ride south," Duncan says firmly, "across The Bannorn, until Lothering at least. We avoid all cities. I consider this matter closed."

As though to emphasize the finality of this declaration, Duncan clucks his tongue loudly, and his horse speeds to a trot, pulling out ahead. Immediately, Alistair took Duncan's place riding beside Jory, and they fell into hushed conversation.

"Bit of a mother hen, ain't he?" Daveth asks, meaning Alistair.

I shrug noncommittally, although Daveth's observation is more or less exactly what I was just thinking. Days earlier, when Jory so artlessly suggested I should focus on the bright side of my family's massacre and turn my attention to the glory I might earn by facing down an army of monsters, Alistair had come to my aid with rather vicious sarcasm. Since then, however, the young Warden had made a point to befriend Jory, chatting with him at length as we rode, tolerating the older man's prattle with patience and, occasionally, sly humor.

Alistair's kindness was good luck for Jory, I suppose. It was patently obvious that he and Duncan didn't see eye to eye, and aside from our evening sparring, he'd been avoiding me like the plague, possibly out of embarrassment. I've not seen him talk with Daveth, either, though I get the feeling that Jory regards the thief with mistrust.

"Fucking nobles," Daveth says cheerfully, and then glances my way. "Always got their britches in a bunch. Begging the pardon of present company, of course," he adds with a slight grin.

I shrug again.

"Always heard you Couslands were a different sort, anyhow," Daveth says, speaking more tentatively now. "Cut from a different cloth, I been told. They…they said kind things about your family even as far as Denerim. Hope you don't mind me saying."

After a moment's hesitation, I shake my head. I trust Daveth not to tear away the scabs that are only beginning to form over my wounded heart. After all, if you can rely on a cutpurse for anything, it's to be delicate.

"Not many noble families the people speak well of, you know? Just yours, and the king and queen and probably Teyrn Loghain. You don't really hear much about how he is as a noble, though. Just _hero_ this and _hero_ that. Come to think of it, my pa used to say the family that heads up Redcliffe were all right, too. So there's a few I guess, but not many."

Now I nod silent agreement. It's hard to know how seriously to take Daveth, but I suppose I appreciate the unfiltered perspective of a commoner – a criminal, in fact. And if his compliments to my family are also meant as a roundabout expression of sympathy for my loss, then I certainly appreciate the sentiment – and the grace with which he broached the topic.

"Speaking of the king and queen," he continues. "I heard you was related?"

"Pardon?" I ask, genuinely surprised.

"Related – you know, to the king's family. That's what I heard, anyhow. I'm guessing through the queen, right? She'd be, what, your aunt? Or your sister?"

I shake my head. "No, not at all. Queen Anora is Teyrn Loghain's daughter. He's the Teyrn of Gwaren, not Highever."

"I know who Teyrn Loghain is," Daveth replies immediately. "I'm not _completely_ daft."

Ahead of us, Alistair says something that makes Jory chuckle. Much of the tension has left the air, although Jory still sits stiffly in his saddle. It's for the best. We cannot afford a mutiny, not in the wake of Howe's treachery, not with the loyalties of half the country in doubt. Further, although I cannot put my finger on exactly why, I have a distinct impression that if Jory tried to part ways over this disagreement, Duncan might not permit him.

"Maybe Anora's mother, then?" Daveth asks again. "Was she your aunt, or whatnot?"

"No, not her either," I answer, and now I'm the one chuckling, at Daveth's persistence. A moment later, I realize this may be the first time I've laughed in the better part of a week. "I'm not sure who Anora's mother is, actually. Maybe you're thinking of Queen Rowan, Maric's wife? She's was Cailan's mother, but she was a Guerrin, not a Cousland. She died some time ago, but her brother's the Arl of Redcliffe, I think – Arl Eamon. Also no relation to my family."

"Huh." Daveth seems genuinely perplexed, and shakes his head. "Guess I maybe misheard Duncan, then? Memory's usually better than that, but what can you do?"

Curious now, I ask, "What'd Duncan say?"

"Oh, it was probably nothin', now I think on it, but after he took me on in Denerim, him and Alistair was talkin', and I heard him say – Duncan, I mean – I heard him say something fancy, like, 'If the line fails,' meaning if Cailan was to die in the Blight? I heard him say your family was key, that you might rule Ferelden. He said that exact phrase - that you was 'key' – I remember that for certain."

"It seems like an odd thing to say. There's only one other Teyrn besides my father, but that's Teyrn Loghain, and he certainly holds more power than my family does."

"It was more than just that, though," Daveth insists. "Something about blood lines?"

I laugh, really laugh now. "Oh, that? Surely Duncan isn't peddling old wives' tales?"

Daveth looks perplexed, so I explain. There's an old folktale, which claims that long ago – centuries after my ancestor, Sarim Cousland, accepted the rule of Highever upon the death of his sworn Bann, Conobar Elstan – and centuries before the Orlesian invasion – another of my ancestors resisted the unification of Ferelden under one king. She led my family and all her vassals against the unifier, King Calenhad the Great, the first of the Theirin line. Though she was defeated, she proved her valor on the battlefield, and King Calenhad made a promise in exchange for her surrender and pledge of fealty: should the Theirin lineage ever die out, the Couslands would inherit the royal line.

"That really happen?" Daveth asks, when I'm finished.

"Doubtful," I reply. "Or, I don't know, it's so long ago, I suppose anything could have happened. It doesn't matter, though. Even if Cailan died, the crown would go to Teyrn Loghain, I'd think. Or, well, to Queen Anora, and he'd be regent, at least until she remarried. Or there'd be civil war. No one's going to make me king off of a fairy tale."

Shaking his head, Daveth chuckles, bemused. "You nobles. Everything's so gods-damned complicated with you lot, isn't it?"

...

 **In near darkness, we dismount,** and Duncan tosses each of us the wooden swords, as we've come to expect – but then he surprises us, pulling from his saddlebags a matched pair of training knives. The wooden blades have a slight curve, like a hunting knife, but they're longer, almost the length of a short sword. Each is well-worn and well-cared for, the wood polished through use and time to a glossy sheen, the grips are wrapped tightly in leather supple from frequent oiling.

On past nights, we have fallen into the habit of warming up as soon as we have the training weapons in hand. Two of us will spar, nothing too serious, just enough to get the blood flowing, while the third walks in circles, stretching legs sore from a day's ride. Now, however, we are rooted in place, standing in a semi-circle, our weapons dangling at our sides, watching Duncan. Perhaps we're too tired to process the change in routine, but I see that Alistair has stopped clearing the ground for a fire and is watching intently, his lips curled into a smirk.

The smirk out to be a warning, and some part of my brain registers it as such, but I'm in no way prepared for the speed with which Duncan strikes. I'm standing furthest from him, but he closes the distance in the space of a blink, and the hard wood of his knives rake across my chest before I even begin to lift my own weapon.

As I stumble backwards, Madra begins to bark furiously, apparently as surprised as I am by the ferocity of Duncan's assault. She has barely paid attention to our previous sparring matches, but by her tone now, I can tell she believes I am really being attacked. I try to call out, warding her off, but my heels mashes into an exposed root and I fall backwards, my command turning into a cry of surprise.

The force of my fall knocks the wind from my lungs, and it's painful to roll sideways. My injuries from the battle at Highever have mostly healed, but my arms and legs are sore from days in the saddle and countless blows from Daveth and Jory's training blades, and my lungs are screaming for air as I roll to my feet, searching desperately for Madra. I'm not altogether enthusiastic about joining the Wardens, but I've no desire to see my hound rip out their commander's throat, either.

Apparently I needn't have worried.

Duncan has locked blades with Daveth and is driving the thief backwards with a flurry of blows, and Madra is inexplicably tangled up with Ser Jory, who is on his back, cursing, as my hound tries to scramble free. Nearby, Alistair has jumped back from the patch of ground he cleared for a campfire, and has abandoned all further attempts, choosing instead the watch the show.

Duncan ducks, crouching so low to the ground that Daveth's short sword passes overhead by at least a foot, and lashes out with both his long knives, catching the backs of Daveth's knees. If the blades were real steel, the cutpurse would be hamstrung at least, if not divested of his lower legs; as it is, he hisses in pain and topples forward, landing hard on the dirt.

Without rising, Duncan twists and kicks out hard, catching Madra in the chest mid-leap, knocking her off course. She yelps in pain as she smashes against a tree and comes up with a snarl. In the corner of my eye, I see Alistair tense, his hand drifting to his sword, but Duncan appears at ease, circling away, his eyes trained on Madra.

I'm fully on my feet now, staggering forward. Late by no more than a heartbeat, I call out the command to disengage and heel just as she launches herself at Duncan a third time. He rolls to his left, the move lightening quick and also effortlessly smooth, and he's on his feet again as Madra's paws hit the ground. She casts him a warning glare, but hurries to my side, and calms immediately when I whisper a reassurance.

"She won't attack you again," I say, straightening up.

Both Daveth and Jory have righted themselves, Jory covered in dirt and looking indignant, Daveth wincing and breathing heavily.

"How'd you move that quick?" Daveth asks.

"I was recruited into the Wardens when I was quite young," Duncan replies, and begins to pace sideways, circling between the three of us, twirling one of the knives lazily in his right hand. "I've spent most of my life training to fight darkspawn, and had plenty of occasions to put that training to the test."

Most men betray their plans during a fight with subtle shifts in their hips and shoulders that precede actual movement, but if Duncan has showed such a tell, I missed it. Without warning, Duncan spins sideways, darting toward Jory.

Perhaps Jory has keener eyes than I, because his sword is already up. There are three loud cracks of wood-on-wood as Jory blocks each successive strike, and then jumps back to avoid a final, fourth sweep from Duncan's knives. By the time Jory counters, however, Duncan is back in the center of our improvised training ground, pacing again.

"Very good, Ser Jory," Duncan says, seeming to surprise the knight with the compliment. "Please retrieve your shield. I should like to see your technique."

This is new, as well. Despite the fact that Daveth and I are not particularly adept with swords, and that Jory has always used a sword in concert with a shield, Duncan insisted that we utilize only the tools he provided on previous nights.

For the next hour, this strange game continues. As Alistair's fire sparks to life and slowly grows, Duncan paces between Jory, Daveth and I, talking calmly, then lashing out without warning, often mid-sentence. Madra watches for a few minutes, her head cocked to one side, before retreating to the fireside, turning in place a few times, and settling down for a nap.

After I've had my sword knocked from my hand and my knuckles bloodied several times, Duncan suggests I trade my long sword for a shorter one, and directs me to a training dagger in his saddle bags. It is neither as well-crafted nor as lovingly maintained as the long knives Duncan carries, and it's not the same weight or length as the daggers with which I trained behind the guard barracks in Highever – but when I return to the drill, I'm carrying weapons that feel more familiar. The next time Duncan strikes, I'm able to parry several times before a leg sweep catches me by surprise and deposits me on my backside.

"Better," Duncan says, and helps me up. "You fight well, Liam."

"Thanks," I say, surprised by the compliment.

Turning so he's facing the others, too, Duncan tucks his twin training blades into his belt. "Your training begins in earnest tomorrow," he announces. "Tonight, get some rest."


	3. A Glass Half-Full Type Person

**CHAPTER TWO:** _A "Glass Half-Full" Type of Person_

" _ **In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice."**_ Duncan lets his words hang in the cold morning air for a few moments, twisting in his saddle to look directly into Jory's face, then Daveth's, and finally mine, before he continues. "This is our vow. Remember it well. Though the words are few, they embody the very essence of what it means to be a Grey Warden."

Automatically, I nod, and begin to recite the oath silently to myself, not wanting to let it slip away so soon. With one hand holding my horse's reins loosely, I use the other to wipe sleep from the corners of my dry eyes, and then stretch, trying to straighten out aches in my back.

After sparring with Duncan and the others last night, I got my wish, and was assigned the second watch. It was less than thrilling, being shaken awake just before midnight and sitting up to find Alistair's grinning at me boyishly, and although the hours spent pacing in circles around our small camp did assuage my guilt, I'm also tired, much more so as we set out today than when we began yesterday's journey. In the future, I should probably be careful what I ask for.

"Try to keep your horses close to mine," Duncan says, waving us all closer. "We have much to discuss, and I'd prefer not to repeat myself."

The land stretches away from us in every direction, nearly flat, blanketed with tall grass, although there are a few patchwork fields of golden grain stalks in the distance, and the odd cluster of fruit trees nearby. Unlike most of the terrain we've crossed since leaving the coast, it'll be easy to ride three or four abreast here. Maybe this is why Duncan has waited until now to begin our education, or maybe he is persuaded we are safe enough from pursuers to turn his attention to us. Or maybe he's been waiting on me. After all, he just said he doesn't want to repeat himself, and for the last few days, I've been in no condition to hear anything, let alone remember.

"As I believe each of you knows," Duncan says, "we are travelling south, to the ruins at Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds. The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago, to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands, the region we now call the Hinterlands. The fortress is built into the narrowest point in a valley, and that valley is the only pass between the Wilds and the rest of Ferelden. It's fitting, in some ways, that we should make our stand there, even if we now face a different foe."

As Duncan speaks, I try to conjure images of my father's maps, with little success. The south always seemed so far away, and never particularly interested me.

"I've had no word from the king since we first arrived at Highever," Duncan continues, "but I am told that the king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times already. Unless they march east to the Ocean, then north through the Brecilian Forest, which is a journey that would take weeks, if not months, they must pass through Ostagar to reach Ferelden. I am confident that the bulk of the horde will show itself there. So, it is there that we must stop them."

Duncan pauses and whets his lips, and again looks each of us in the face. He seems to be measuring his next words. "Make no mistake," he says at last. "If the Blight spreads north, into the Hinterlands or the Bannorn, Ferelden will fall. The king's army is not large enough to contain the horde in open ground, and there are only a few Grey Wardens in Ferelden beside myself and Alistair – barely more than a score. All of them are with the king at Ostagar now."

"So few?" Jory asks, bewildered.

I confess myself surprised as well. The stories tell of entire armies of Wardens. Now, Duncan is telling me there are barely twenty?

"Indeed," Duncan answers. "Now, perhaps, you see why I've taken the time to search for recruits, even on the cusp of a Blight. When our numbers are so few, every new blade is welcome."

Duncan sighs heavily, and glances sidelong at Alistair before continuing.

"Every recruit must go through a sacred ritual we call the Joining. The rite itself is brief, but some preparation is required. I had hoped to complete it in Highever, but… _events_ conspired against us. We will have to complete the preparations as soon as we arrive in Ostagar, so that when the battle finds us, you may face the darkspawn as true Grey Wardens."

"This is the first I've heard of any ritual," Jory says, and he sounds a bit indignant.

Although I don't share his indignation, I'm certainly curious. I've heard nothing of it either, not from Duncan nor in any studies or tales of the Wardens.

"I would not expect any of you to have heard of it," Duncan answer. "The Joining is the final step in the testing every recruit endures, and, like many of our rites, we do not speak of it to anyone outside the Order."

"Surely you can tell us what manner of ritual we are being asked to undertake," Jory presses. "I'll commit no blasphemy against the Maker."

"Hold on to your horses," Alistair interjects. "No one has to sacrifice any virgins or dance naked with a pig under a blood moon."

This does nothing to mollify Jory, who snorts skeptically. If anything, he seems affronted by Alistair's flippant response.

"Oh, really," Alistair says, exasperated. "You're clearly religious, ser knight. You know the Chant. 'The Maker smiles sadly on his Grey Wardens, for no sacrifice is greater than theirs?' Ring any bells? Our order operates outside the Chantry's structure, yes, but we have their blessing, and the Maker's, as well."

"Alistair was a templar before he was recruited," Duncan adds. "Perhaps that helps to set your mind at ease?"

Jory nods, although without enthusiasm.

"I've no objection myself, you understand," Daveth says, when Jory remains silent. "Just wondering, though, if it's all above-board, why so secret?"

"As I said, the Order has many secrets," Duncan replies, still patient. "The Joining is dangerous, but it is also vital. None of you were led to believe this path would be safe, and this ritual is but one step along the path you've chosen. Beyond that, I cannot speak more of it except to say that you will learn all in good time. Until then, you must each trust that what is done is necessary."

When it becomes clear that we've no more questions, Duncan nods.

"As the junior member of our Order, it is Alistair's responsibility to guide you through your testing. Once we reach Ostagar, he will accompany you as you make your preparations, and until then, he will assist me in training you in the ways of our Order. Ask him any questions you wish – but understand, there some answers he is forbidden to give until after your Joining."

With that, Duncan nods to us, and then spurs his horse ahead, leaving the three of us riding in a small knot around the younger Warden, who smiles at us almost sheepishly. Once Duncan is well out of earshot, Alistair clears his throat.

"Well, then," he says. "You heard Duncan. It's – well, it's part of the tradition of the whole thing, that I help you all along. I'm not sure what Duncan is planning to accomplish today, but for now, I'll tell you what I can. Just – before we start, I wanted to say, I can't tell you any more about the Joining. I know you probably have a lot of questions – I did, I know that – but honestly, I can't tell you anything. Just, try not to worry about it. It'll … it'll only distract you, and there's no time for that."

Daveth and I exchange a sidelong glance. For my part, I wasn't especially worried about the ritual – until Alistair's reassurances. Now, I'm beginning to wonder, and Daveth seems to share my concern. For perhaps the first time, we both seem to be in agreement with Jory, who casts us a dark look of his own.

Still, it's obvious we'll get no more on the subject from Alistair for now, so I decide to pursue a different line of questioning, one that will connect back to the attacks on Highever. "Duncan said you'd been a templar?" I ask, as casually as I can manage.

"Right," Daveth chimes in. "I didn't know you was a mage hunter before."

"Well, that's not all templars do, but... yes. That was part of my training, before Duncan recruited me, maybe six months ago. We're – well, templars are, I should say – they're the Chantry's military wing. They protect the Divine and the Grand Clerics, and other Chantry interests. But, yes, the Chantry also uses templars to control mages – the dangerous ones – so some of our training was to hunt and kill apostates."

"How long were you with the Templars?" Jory asks.

I'm beginning to get the impression that, for whatever time Jory and Daveth travelled with Duncan and Alistair prior to arriving in Highever, all must have kept to themselves. My fellow recruits seem to know little more than I do about the Order, the darkspawn, and the Wardens we travel with.

"It's tough to say, really," Alistair replies thoughtfully. "The Chantry raised me, and becoming a templar was a decision made _for_ me, a long time ago. The training didn't begin in earnest until I turned sixteen, but they were laying the groundwork long before that. Duncan visited a few times over the years – Warden business, I expect – and I got to know him a bit, and this last time, I think he saw I wasn't happy, and conscripted me. Not that I objected to being conscripted – it was a kindness, really. The Grand Cleric wouldn't have let me go if Duncan never forced the issue. So now, here I stand, a proud Grey Warden. I'll always be grateful to Duncan for that."

"You have found the Wardens more to your liking than the templars, then?" Jory asks. "Both are honorable callings."

"Yes, I suppose," Alistair says, uncomfortably. "Chantry life just... wasn't for me. I believe in the Maker well enough, but I never wanted to devote my life to the church. Duncan figured my training fighting mages could be put to better use, fighting darkspawn."

"How do you kill 'em?" Daveth asks. "Mages, I mean. If you don't mind me asking."

It's a question I'd not mind the answer to myself. The memory of the mage decimating my Father's guardsmen is still fresh.

Alistair seems to consider Jory's question for several moments, his expression almost troubled. "It would take more time than we have to explain," he says slowly, "and anyway, it's something you learn more by _doing_. But the general idea is to train yourself to use Lyrium to sort of … to suppress a mage's connection to the Fade."

"Lyrium," Daveth says, nodding. "That's the magic dust the dwarves hawk, isn't it?"

Alistair nods. "I really don't know that much about it, and it's not magic in itself - but, yes, the dwarves in Orzammer mine the stuff, and sell it to the Chantry. It's ground into powder when we – when the templars get it, I mean. There's more to it than that, but -"

"Is there a way to tell a mage is an apostate?" I interrupt, drawing to mind a picture of the mage in the great hall, his staff glowing, his face slick with sweat, eyes tight with concentration.

"Uh, well... any of them outside the Chantry," Alistair says, sounding confused. "I'm sure you know the Chantry's teachings on magic..."

"I mean, just looking at one," I say, interrupting again. "Or by the type of magic they used?"

"Well, blood magic is always..." Alistair begins, and then stops abruptly. " _Oh,_ " he says, drawing the word out, seeming to suddenly understand what I'm getting at. "You mean the mages who attacked your home. I heard there were several."

"We fought one inside the keep. I heard there were more with Howe's troops."

Alistair nods slowly. "Well, I can see why you were asking, then. It's very rare that for the Chantry to allow any mages to leave the Circle. Some of the senior enchanters are permitted to travel to visit other circles, or to go to the college of enchanters, but other than that, even the healers travel with a templar escort. And they're not loaned out as weapons, not unless there's a real threat. I'm sure there's a contingent with the army, but – but I can't imagine the Chantry would sanction Arl Howe's actions, let alone lend him a few mages."

"So they were probably apostates?"

"Probably. Maybe even certainly. I know the Knight Commander at the Ferelden Circle, Greagoir. He'd never permit such a thing, and he spoke highly of the Senior Enchanter, as well."

"But there's no way to know?" I press.

Alistair sighs, almost reluctantly. "I suppose not, not really. Chantry mages usually wear robes. If you know what to look for, you can tell their rank and even their specialties, but I've heard they often disguise themselves as tradesmen or clergy when they travel, to avoid trouble, so who knows. Apostates mostly want to avoid notice, too, so they might dress as commoners, I suppose? But unless they give in to a demon, they'd look like any other person – no sprouting horns or burning eyes or anything like that, I'm afraid."

"They do get horns, though, don't they?" Daveth asks before I can think of another question. "If they let the demon...you know, whatever demons do?"

"That's called an abomination," Alistair says, "and, yes, I'm told they can be quite hideous. But we've gotten off track. If any of you have more questions, we can speak another time." As he says these last words, he glances at me, almost apologetically. "As Duncan said, we've only a few days until we reach Ostagar. I'm sure Duncan wants us to cover as much as we can between now and then. So, I'm curious: have any of you actually encountered a darkspawn before?"

We glance at each other silently, each shaking our heads.

"Not surprised," Alistair says. "They're not easy to find by accident. I've only fought them once up close. That was before the Blight started. Duncan's kept me out of the battles, so far, helping him recruit. Anyway, when I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. They're really just – just hideous. Thankfully, no harder to kill than a man. Go down just fine once you put a blade to them. Still, I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another."

Not exactly the most encouraging teacher. Still, it seems Alistair is being honest with us, at least. That's something.

"How about Wardens? Have any of you known any Wardens before you were recruited?"

Again, we all shake our heads.

Alistair nods. "There aren't many of us in Ferelden. I think Duncan already mentioned that. Well, anyway, I guess I'll just start with the basics. Most people know we fight the darkspawn – you've all been told that much, or you wouldn't be here. What else? No griffons – you've probably heard we ride griffons, right?"

Daveth says "Aye" at almost the same time I say, "I've heard they died out."

"Sadly, Liam is correct. The griffons died out at during the Fourth Blight, or shortly after. The records aren't clear. But, yes, once upon a time, we rode griffons into battle. I'm sure you've heard of Weisshaupt? It's the center of the Order, a fortress carved into cliffs in the Anderfel Mountains. It started out as an aerie, where we tended the griffons. I've never been there myself, but I'm told one can visit the old stables still."

"What happened to them?" Daveth asks.

"If anyone knows, they haven't told me," Alistair replies. "They're still used as a symbol of the Order – they're our crest, I'm sure you've noticed – but Duncan says the Order has been in a decline ever since. Maybe because the griffons are gone, or maybe because we've gone so long without a Blight to remind people of why we're needed, but our numbers have dwindled since the Fourth Blight, and not just here in Ferelden – all over Thedas. Still, nobody knows more about darkspawn, and nobody's better equipped to deal with them. You'll see, trust me."

"So what _are_ we, really?" Daveth asks. "Knights? Soldiers? Some sort of merry band of traveling heroes?"

"We will be all of those things!" Jory exclaims rather grandly, drawing a bemused glance from Alistair.

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Alistair replies. "Maybe we're a bit of all those things, but we're also not really any of them. We're not mere soldiers, but we're not knights, either. Duncan says we do whatever is necessary to protect mankind from the darkspawn. No more, no less. That's a noble calling, sure, but it means some pretty extreme things, as well – whatever it takes to bring victory."

"Like the rule Duncan used to snatch me up, then?" Daveth asks. "You lot can take anyone you need, right? King or cunt?"

Alistair chuckles. "Well, we've little use for either, I'd imagine. But, yes. King Maric reaffirmed the power the Grey Wardens were given during the Blights. In practice, we can't conscript too often, not without hurting our cause. You know we were exiled from Ferelden once, right? Best not to let it happen again. Duncan only uses the right in situations like mine – or like Daveth's – to recruit someone who's willing, but otherwise bound, say by an oath or a crime or a title. Even then, he's used it as much as he dares. Conscripting a king would be, well..." Alistair chuckles. "Well, I don't know, King Cailan might prefer it, actually."

Jory arches both eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

"Only that I'm told Cailan is quite excited to ride into battle with us. Maybe he thinks that's what his father would've done? But I've... well, I've met him before, and he seemed much more interested in the chance for battle than in ruling. If you want my opinion, Cailan just wants to earn a place in history."

Although he remains quiet, I can tell this sort of talk about the king doesn't sit well with Jory.

Evidently Alistair picks up on Jory's discomfort, because he quickly adds, "I mean no insult to the king. There's certainly no questioning his courage – he'll lead from the front, which is more than most royalty would do. In the meantime, we can look to Teyrn Loghain for our strategy. I guess I should be thankful the king favors us Grey Wardens."

"The king is wise to defer to Teyrn Loghain," Jory says stiffly. "He is an undisputed master of the art of warfare."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," Alistair says. "I'm sure Loghain has the battle planned to the last detail."

"Are they just waitin' on us, then?" Daveth asks.

"You know, that's a good question," Alistair replies. "The other Grey Wardens are already there, and I imagine most of the army will have assembled by now. I'm sure the king wants to wait for Duncan, and I'm sure he'll want to ride into battle with us, but I don't know if Duncan plans to include you three in the battle or not. And who knows what the darkspawn are up to – they may not wait in the Wilds forever."

"So the battle may already have been fought?" I can't tell if Jory's question is hopeful or not.

"No," Alistair says slowly. "No, I don't think so. We'd – well, we'd be able to tell."

"Tell?" Daveth asks, surprised. "How's that?"

"We just – well, we just _would_. It's something we'll discuss later, but for now, you'll just have to trust me."

"Fair enough," Daveth says amicably.

I can see the evasive reply doesn't satisfy Jory. For that matter, it doesn't satisfy me, either, but it's clear that both Alistair and Duncan will keep whatever secrets they hold until a time of their choosing.

"All the same, the battle could be joined any time now. The army is at the edge of the Wilds, the eye of the Blight's storm, right where the horde will be coming. When they decide to move, even Loghain won't be able to delay. That's why we're riding so hard – we know they'll have to come through Ostagar, there's really no other way to attack Ferelden. Lucky for us, Duncan tells me Ostagar is an excellent defensive position."

"Indeed it is!" Jory exclaims. "I've been there myself, with my uncle, and studied diagrams besides. The Wilders were pushed back from Ostagar time and time again in ancient days, by mere token forces. The battle records are quite fascinating. For my part, I can imagine no better place to face an invasion."

"From what Duncan says, it's the _only_ place to face an invasion," Alistair says. "If we don't break the horde there, it'll spread until it engulfs all Ferelden. There's just too many of them to face all at once. It will take an alliance of nations to face down the Blight. Which would be bad... obviously. Then again, you should take all this with a grain of salt. I'd trust Duncan with my life, but neither the king nor the teyrn seem to _really_ believe this is a Blight."

"So... what's the difference?" I ask, hoping I'm not revealing my ignorance. "What makes it a Blight, or not a Blight? Is it the number of darkspawn, or just the – I've heard they're called Archdemons?"

"Oh, boy," Alistair says, and chuckles. "You want the Chantry's version, or the truth?"

"Aren't they always the same thing?" I ask, feigning surprise. It might be the first attempt at I've mad at any sort of humor since Highever.

Alistair laughs. "They seldom are."

Our little exchange at the Chantry's expense seems to have furthered Jory's irritation, and he snorts loudly.

"The truth is," Alistair continues, ignoring Jory, "that we don't _really_ know. They live underground, and sometimes they come up from the ground and attack us, and usually they go back underground after we kill enough of them, or after they get whatever it is they came for. But sometimes, when they come up from the ground, they're led by an Archdemon, and there's a lot more of them than other times. That's what we call a Blight."

"So, what's an Archdemon, then?" Daveth asks. "Just a dragon, right?"

"Well, not to beat a dead horse, but we don't _really_ know that, either. The Old Gods were dragons, according to the stories, and according to some theologians. Big dragons. Intelligent, even. The Tevinter Empire still has statues of them, and each of them had a name, and a place in the cosmos. It's all very... intricate. And the Archdemons are definitely dragons, but as far as I know, no one's ever proved more of a link than that. The Chantry says the darkspawn are descended from the magisters who followed the Old Gods and defiled the Golden City, and the darkspawn search for the Old Gods, and when they find them, they wake up as Archdemons. But – we don't really know..."

"And what reason is there to doubt the Chant?" Jory demands, unable to contain himself.

Alistair shrugs. "None, I suppose. All I mean is that – well, it doesn't matter, does it? If we see an Archdemon, we need to kill it, whether it's an Old God or not."

"But we haven't seen one yet," I say, "and that's why people are so skeptical, right?"

"That's part of the reason. Another part of the reason is that the Grey Wardens killed so many darkspawn at the end of the last Blight, people decided they were gone for good. But, obviously they're not – they've never been gone, just ask the dwarves. Just because the Archdemon hasn't shown itself yet, that doesn't prove anything. It could be in the Wilds, or underground. It could be hiding. Just because we haven't seen it, doesn't mean it's not out there."

"No need to convince me," Daveth says. "You and Master Duncan say this is a Blight, reckon that's good enough for me. Only question is how we end the damn thing."

"That's another good question," Alistair says. "We kill the Archdemon. We chop off the snake's head. It's the only way. According to the texts – which you'll have the _pleasure_ of reading yourselves, once this is all over – without an Archdemon to lead them, the darkspawn flee back underground."

"And that's the only way?" I ask. "We can't just – well, like any war, kill enough of them and it's over?"

"Well, again, we just don't know. If they can be defeated that way, no one's ever managed to kill enough of them, and like I said, we killed _a lot of them_ at the end of the Fourth Blight. Some historians say more than a million in the last year. But even if we managed to wipe almost all of them out, that was hundreds of years ago – they've had centuries to build up their numbers. Who knows how many are in the Wilds? Duncan said he saw thousands, at least."

"How'd he happen to come across them?" Daveth asks.

"It's – it's what we do. We keep watch. It's in the vows: _In peace, vigilance._ We can … we feel the darkspawn when they come. You'll understand after the Joining if you... well, you'll understand."

There it is again: Alistair is equivocating, dodging whatever connection it is that allows the Wardens to sense the darkspawn, sidestepping the issue of the Joining altogether.

We'll understand _if,_ he said. _If_ what? _If we survive_ , I think is what he almost said, but it must be worse than that. Duncan has already told us the Joining is dangerous, and one does not commit to facing a Blight without accepting the risk of death. No, there must be more at play here.

"Duncan sensed them stirring," Alistair continues, although I'm only half listening. "But there were no reports of them anywhere in Ferelden – and people do start to notice when darkspawn pop up from he ground and taint everything around them – so he went looking in the Wilds. He found signs of darkspawn activity, and tracked them until he came across their army. It's a stroke of luck he found them, and an even greater stroke of luck he made it back: without warning, we might all be dead already."

"Might still all be dead soon enough," Daveth says cheerfully, "if half what you say is true. Still, better some chance than none at all. So, then, what's the trick? How do we kill the buggers?"

Alistair chuckles again, evidently amused by Daveth's determination, but Jory casts me a dark glance behind the Warden's back, one I return. They're hiding something, Alistair and Duncan, and I can think of no good reason for such secrecy. We are already bound to their cause, committed to risking our lives. What else could they be holding back?

"All in time, Daveth," Duncan calls back to us. "Fighting darkspawn is like fighting any enemy – the better you understand them, the better your odds."

...

 **To that end,** Duncan spends the next several hours discussing the nature of our foe. Every man, woman, and child has heard of the darkspawn: they are bogeymen in cautionary tales told to the very young, or nameless monsters to be vanquished by legendary heroes in bards' songs. Blights, as well, are pivotal points in history, integral to even a basic understanding of Thedas' past, but even the most thorough education often glosses over the specifics of the darkspawn tide, in favor of the effects on geopolitics. Similarly, the creatures play a key role in Chantry theology, since their very existence is attributed to the Second Sin.

All that is largely theoretical. More practically, they pose an occasional threat to travelers in remote regions, or miners who delve too deep, but such attacks are rare, and usually occur only when an entrance to the Deep Roads is discovered or reopened. Still, given that their existence has such an ongoing, pervasive influence on life in Thedas, I'm surprised by how little I actually _knew_ of the darkspawn themselves before today.

Apparently there is great debate among scholars as to whether they are a race of their own, or several races joined together, united by their corruption, or by the false calling of the Old Gods, or perhaps by some unfathomable cause known only to the beasts themselves. If they are one race, however, there is greater variance between individual darkspawn than between members of the other races. Duncan uses dogs as an example, pointing to the differences between breeds, and suggests darkspawn ought to be thought of similarly.

With that analogy in mind, Duncan tells us that hurlocks and genlocks are the most common breeds. Both are humanoid, and share similarly monstrous facial features, but are easily distinguishable from one another: hurlocks are taller and faster, and often used a shock troops; more common are genlocks, who are built like dwarves, short and sturdy. Also humanoid are ghouls, although Duncan says these are not really darkspawn at all, but humans or other creatures infected by something he calls "the taint."

When I ask what the taint is – and feel a pang of sadness as I hear Aeron in the back of my mind, laughing at all the filthy puns he could make – Duncan says only that it is a poison, and seems reluctant to explain further when I press.

"There is very little consensus among the scholars as to its nature," he says, "or its origin. You will learn more of what we do know, but that is a discussion for another time. For now, it is enough for you to know it is a plague contracted by exposure to darkspawn, and it corrupts all living things – even the land."

"How easy is it to catch, though?" Daveth asks, sounding concerned.

"Let's just say you don't want to get any darkspawn blood in your mouth," Alistair replies, smirking slightly.

Keeping darkspawn blood out of your mouth seems like sound advice anyway, even without taking this taint into consideration. However, I've recently learned firsthand that blood tends to get everywhere in the thick of combat. I'm about to ask how exactly we're supposed to avoid being bled on while we kill the monsters, but Jory beats me to the question.

"How do you manage that? Helmets?"

Alistair looks like he's about to answer, but Duncan cuts him off.

"We will discuss this later," the senior Warden reiterates firmly. Then he returns briefly to the subject of ghouls, telling us that men and beasts alike can succumb to the taint. Humans, elves, and dwarves wither away, driven mad, and eventually seek out the darkspawn as allies or servants, and many willingly become food for the darkspawn horde. The last thought turns my stomach, and I'm grateful Duncan does not dwell on such a fate.

"If I catch that taint business," Daveth mutters, "you kill me right off."

I nod.

"I'm serious," he says.

"Me too," I reply, and this seems to satisfy him.

Wild animals can become ghouls as well, Duncan says, but in them, the taint triggers aggression and mutations. "It's most common in large predators," he says. "Most other animals have the sense to flee when they sense a Blight. But bears and wolves often try to hunt the darkspawn, and become blighted."

...

 **There are other, rarer breeds of darkspawn,** Duncan tells us, but first he launches into a rather lengthy dissertation on the weaponry, armor, and tactics associated with the hurlocks and genlocks who make up the bulk of any Blight. As in any human army, there are archers, pikemen, and melee troops armed with swords, maces, and shields. Genlocks are known to craft and utilize siege weapons, as well, ranging from battering rams to catapults.

They also understand the value of terror as a weapon: although the darkspawn themselves seem immune to fear or panic, they are devilish in their infliction of atrocities, and have been known to dismember prisoners in the sight of enemy forces, or load their siege weapons with the heads of their enemies and hurl the grisly projectiles into besieged cities.

Within each of these breeds, the most powerful of the darkspawn take on leadership roles. The Grey Wardens call them alphas, and Duncan says they are easy to spot, because they wear more sophisticated armor, and often seem to coordinate large groups of their fellows. In addition to the alphas, there are darkspawn called emissaries, who can wield a form of magic, and have apparently been known to communicate in the common tongue. Whether they draw magic from the Fade, like normal mages, or are darkspawn inhabited by demons, Duncan says he doesn't know…which isn't exactly encouraging.

During our afternoon break, as I eat bread and salted fish under the shade of an oak tree, I find I'm beginning to question exactly what I've gotten myself into. Infectious plagues, darkspawn eating human flesh, mutant animals – I expected monsters, but these new revelations go far beyond my expectation.

Duncan discusses these things dispassionately, almost as dry as Brother Aldous giving a lecture on the historical evolution of methods for producing ceramics – but what he's saying is more horrifying than even the most shocking folk tales about the darkspawn. It's sobering, maybe even shocking, but other than the brief turn of my stomach when he spoke earlier of darkspawn eating sickened humans alive, it's also strangely distant. Like my life is something I'm observing from the outside.

Although this sense of objectivity – or, if I'm being harder on myself, aloofness or even passivity – does not wane as the days progress, Duncan's instruction about our foes certainly grows more dire by the mile.

In addition to the hurlocks and genlocks, there are other strains, less common but no less dangerous.

Sharlocks are more often called "shrieks," Duncan says, because of the screaming noises they make immediately before an attack. Faster than any of their brethren, shrieks can move as quickly as a horse gallops, though only over short distances. Though they are only encountered during Blights, or in the lower levels of the Deep Roads, they are particularly dangerous because they tend to employ guerilla tactics, utilizing camouflage and ambushes to their advantage.

And then there are ogres.

As Duncan describes these beasts, I detect a rare glint of grim humor in his eyes: "They're not so bad, really," he says, in a tone that indicates they most certainly _are_. "Two or three times the height of a man, heavier than several horses. Their hands are bigger than a shield, and they'll uproot trees or boulders to use as weapons. Can bit a man's head clean off, and I've seen them do it, too."

"How does one fight such a thing?" Jory asks, and I think he means the question to sound sincere, even academic, but he's gone pale.

It's an excellent question, all the same. If nothing else, between the barbarism Duncan has described, the emissaries, and the ogres, I'm beginning to understand exactly _how_ past Blights could have so decimated Thedas.

"With determination," Duncan answers. "I have encountered ogres only a three times. They are susceptible to magic, or to sustained attack from archers. I've been told the Tevinter Imperium became very proficient at bringing them down with formations of pikemen, but they were specifically trained to hunt ogres. The ones I've killed – we had to get in close. They're big, and not especially nimble, so if you can get inside their guard, you can make them bleed."

" _That_ sounds fun," Daveth says, provoking nervous chuckles from Jory and I.

"Not fun, exactly, but there's a certain sense of accomplishment when you bring one down," Duncan replies, surprising me with his answer. "Fortunately, ogres are quite rare, and even in the worst Blights, our records indicate the horde rarely contains more than a hundred."

" _A hundred ogres?"_ Jory demands, sputtering.

"Compared to a hundred thousand darkspawn, it's not that many," Alistair chips in. "It's all about _perspective_. You've got to try to be more of a 'glass half full' type person."

Duncan nods, smiling slightly. "Indeed. If the darkspawn were defeated easily, there would be no need for our Order. We do not exist merely for sport. We are a necessity, something you would all do well to bear in mind."

...

 **Though our pace has slowed since the day we fled past Crestwood,** we push continue to push the horse as hard as we dare. My loyal hound collapses, exhausted, at the briefest pause, and in the evenings she falls asleep without so much as a halfhearted spin after her own tail.

We are no easier on ourselves.

At first, Duncan continues his odd training methods. Occasionally, he includes Alistair in our nightly sparring, and I learn the former templar possesses enormous skill with a shield – almost rivaling Aeron's natural gift. When Alistair fights, we have to shift the way we think and the way we move, and also the way we listen to Duncan, who rarely stops his lectures just because Alistair is smashing into us with his shield.

We are taught various techniques to use against specific foes, and made to practice them as best we can; at other times, Duncan will address a specific era in the history of the Wardens, or quiz us about battlefield tactics, or relate anecdotes of personal experience. He answers our questions thoughtfully, and expects we do the same when he poses questions his own.

It's almost more than I can take in, but I do try.

I learn that the Grey Wardens have their headquarters in Weisshaupt Fortress, an aerie carved into the side of a vast white cliff in the far-off Anderfel Mountains. It is the place of the Order's founding, and was once home to the griffons that Wardens ride in fairytales and legends. From Weisshaupt, the head of the Order, bearing the title of First Warden, serves as a political and diplomatic figurehead for the entire Order, but leaves much of the Order's power in the hands of individual Warden Commanders, who are responsible for garrisons scattered across Thedas.

Such garrisons exist in every nation on the continent, and have since the end of the First Blight. The only nation ever to exile the Order, I learn, is my own. Following some sort of nasty political incident in the Storm Age, more than two hundred years ago, the King of Ferelden exiled the Grey Wardens, and they did not return until Maric retook the throne from the Orlesians at the advent of the Dragon Age.

"It's for this reason that our numbers are so few here," Duncan says, before lunging at Jory, who actually manages to land a strike with his shield. Duncan compliments the hit before returning to his lecture, which is being given in the middle of a field of tall grass trampled by our sparring. "It is also for this reason that so many in Ferelden mistrust the Order still. Your father was one of our few allies outside the royal family, Liam."

Before Howe's treachery, I had meant to ask about this – both Duncan and Brother Aldous had alluded to the rarity of the goodwill my family showed the Wardens. Now, in the middle of this field, I try to press Duncan for more details on the events that led to the Order's exile, but he replies that it is another lesson for another time, and then springs at me so fast that I'm on my back before I even knew an attack was coming.

Between traded blows and tips on fighting stances, Duncan also elaborates on our limited numbers. He has petitioned King Cailan to permit him to request reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but Cailan is reluctant to invite Orlesian aid, fearful of political backlash from nobles who still recall the yoke of Orlesian occupation.

"Worse still," Duncan says, "I fear the king does not truly believe such reinforcements are necessary. He believes our presence alone is assurance of victory."

"But – hasn't he read any history?" I ask, wary that my question will garner an attack rather than an answer.

"For the young, I have learned, history often has little meaning," Duncan replies, without so much as feinting in my direction.

There's a hint of sadness in his voice. He straightens, lowering his sword, and his gaze drifts over my shoulder, settling on some fixed point in the dusky sky.

"Perhaps because you are among the rare exceptions, Liam, you have not yet realized this, but most men do not see the lessons in the past until it is far too late. By then, its only gift is regret."

Duncan's shift in posture seems to indicate an end to the drills, at least for now, and Jory and Daveth relax their blades as well, watching Duncan curiously. He's always been stoic, guarded even, but now he seems weary, tired to his soul.

"I truly hope I'm wrong," Duncan continues, and his eyes dart to the side, finding mine. "But I fear our king may soon find much to regret in history's lessons about the pursuit of glory."

...

 **As the days pass,** however, there seems less and less to discuss. Alistair and Duncan have told us as much as they can – or as much as they're willing, at least – so the evening drills grow silent, and during the day's ride we resort to whatever small talk we can manage.

Unsurprisingly, Daveth and Alistair are more talkative than the rest of us, by no small measure. Though I have little to say, I don't mind listening to them, and every now and then one will say something that makes me laugh. Mostly, though, I'm too exhausted to pay much attention. I'm sure I've nodded off more than once, lulled by the rhythm of my horse's gait and the warmth of the sun on my neck.

The landscape, too, changes as we press further and further south. Rolling farmlands slowly give way to wooded hill country, thick with fir and pine. The River Dane, which we continue to follow, flows faster and clearer by the mile, and mountains slowly come into view on the horizon: in the west, first, the high, snow-covered peaks of the Frostbacks; and then in the south, the low, craggy ridges that separate Ferelden from the Korcari Wilds.

Eventually, we reach the River's source on the banks of Lake Calenhad, and continue cross country, following dirt tracks and Duncan's intuition, until we find ourselves in the shadow of the Imperial Highway.

Its arches provide comfortable shade as we travel south, expecting at every turn to find the ramps that are common on the Highway's northern stretches. Here and there, you can see the empty spaces where ancient ramps once flanked the stone arches, but those we pass have either fallen away completely or been eroded so severely that we would have trouble climbing them ourselves, let alone with horses.

Almost a full day passes before we are able to gain access the Highway itself, but when we finally do, this state of disrepair turns out to be a boon. The Highway is practically deserted, and we go hours at a time without encountering another soul. Those who do cross our path are mostly children, groups of them playing with crude wooden swords or rough, ugly dolls. There are hunters, too, some carrying fresh kill over their shoulders, and peasants pushing handcarts, and a few travelling merchants, but none of them seem likely spies for Howe, and none seem remotely surprised to see us.

...

 **A haggard old tradesman,** walking beside a cart pulled by equally haggard mule, remarks to us that only a few days earlier, the highway was clogged with soldiers just like us. Either he is a convincing actor, or the griffon sigil means nothing to him.

He is on his way back from Ostagar, he says, having sold his entire stock in the camp a few days past. There have been no battles, only rumors of ongoing skirmishes, and he found the camp not only profitable, but comfortable and safe.

"If I can find enough stock to buy up, I might even give thought to another trip!" he explains, almost gleefully.

Trying to be casual about it, I ask if he noticed any soldiers from Highever among the army.

He ponders a moment, then nods slowly. "Aye, I think I might've. Big group, I think. Bought out my only barrel of whiskey, matter of fact. Their lord paid from it by his own pocket."

That's Fergus, if I know him.

I'd give anything to know more – to be sure he was still alive, safe as yet from Howe's treason – but I bite my tongue. Even my sole question may be too much – may be enough to give us away, if he is bribed or questioned. The tradesman seems harmless enough, but who knows who else he might encounter as he continues north.

...

 **Since Highever,** we've not had a rainy day, nor seen more than a few distant, pale clouds in the blue sky. Summer is in full swing throughout most of Ferelden – but on the southern horizon, there is no summer. A thick wall of clouds, dark and foreboding, rises above the jagged peaks that mark the border with the Wilds, and I expect we'll be under their shadow before we reach Ostagar.

The journey from the River Dane to the southern crossroadswould have taken the better part of a week if we continued cross country, but the miles pass more quickly on the Highway. All totaled, it takes us less than two days, and only one night spent on its cold stone, before we see crude, hand-painted signs announcing the distance to the crossroads, and the nearby village of Lothering.

I've seen the name on maps, and Duncan tells us it is the last town of any note on the southern stretch of the Highway, he says, before Ferelden gives way to the Wilds. Even if Howe has men watching nowhere else, he surely has them in Lothering. We will leave the Highway before we reach the village, he says.

"I've been there before," Alistair remarks. "It's only a few days to Redcliffe." Something in his tone is almost wistful. It catches Daveth's attention, as well. "You from there, then?"

"Redcliffe? Yes. It's where I grew up – in the castle, actually."

"You noble?" Daveth asks, surprised.

"No!" Alistair exclaims, and then chuckles. "No, not at all. I was a stable boy. Or I was until I was sent to the Chantry."

"You miss it there?"

Alistair pauses before answering, longer than I'd expect, before pursing his lips and nodding. "Maybe?" he says. "I suppose. Maybe. It's not exactly a glorious existence, you know – being a stable boy, I mean – but the other servants were kind, and Arl Eamon is a good man. It's… well, it was home."

"Reckon I know what you mean," Daveth says, nodding as well. "Easy to forget what that's worth, you ask me. Know I did, at least."

Along with the signs, we see a marked increase in the number of travelers with whom we share the road. At first, it's just more of the same – children playing, farmers and hunters carrying the fruits of their labor to or from their homes, merchants riding on the backs of donkeys or the fronts of carts. We also pass a cluster of young men, leaning against the walls beside a crude-looking ramp that leads down from the Highway to a muddy road. They're carrying cudgels and other crude weapons, and they look to me like bandits – but they take one look at our weapons, and the armor Alistair and Duncan wear, and they give us a wide berth, studying their feet as we pass.

More notably, we pass refugees for the first time.

There are perhaps twenty or thirty of them, a mix of old and young, men and women, and they are clearly not Ferelden. They wear strange furs, and the faces of all but the youngest bear wide, intricately swirling tattoos of white or black ink. The men and women carry bows and axes, and all wear enormous packs that seem to contain their earthly possessions, lashed together with strips of leather. Despite their weapons, they huddle close together as we approach, casting suspicious looks from the corners of their eyes, pulling their young close.

Duncan tries to speak with several of them, but they just stare at him with hollow eyes and trudge onward. They do not acknowledge him at all, in fact, so that I wonder if they even understand the common tongue.

And perhaps they do not: judging their attire and their markings, these are Chasind Wilders. They are members of a tribal culture that makes its home deep in the Korcari, beyond even the furthest settlements of Ferelden pioneers. In the months before Highever was sacked, I'd heard rumors repeated, claiming that some of the Chasind were fleeing north. It was just one of many ill omens that I dismissed at the time.

"They've seen darkspawn," Duncan tells us, after they've passed. "You can see it in their faces: 'Men who've looked into the void, and seen that they are powerless before its embrace."

I recognize this quote from the Chant of Light, one describing the earliest victims of the First Blight, and although I cannot recall the specific Canticle or verse, I cannot help thinking how apt the holy words are, at least in this one instance.

Tales of the Chasind Wilders paint a picture of rugged barbarians, a people so full of fierce pride and warlike ambition that they halted the Tevinter Imperium's southward expansion with little more than rage and blood. Yet these men and women appear cowed, broken even – skittish like an animal that knows it is prey.

...

...

...

 **CODEX: On the Old Gods**

 _Dumat, the Dragon of Silence._

 _Zazikel, the Dragon of Chaos._

 _Toth, the Dragon of Fire._

 _Andoral, the Dragon of Slaves._

 _Urthemiel, the Dragon of Beauty._

 _Razikale, the Dragon of Mystery._

 _Lusacan, the Dragon of Night._

 _There were seven Old Gods, great winged dragons that were said to rule over the ancient world. The Chantry maintains that they are responsible for the original sin, that they turned humanity away from its true creator through deceit. Humanity's faith faltered, and thus the Maker turned away from the world – but not before trapping the Old Gods in eternal prisons beneath the earth as punishment._

 _Scholars assume that the Old Gods must indeed have been real at one point, but most agree that they were likely actual dragons-ancient high dragons of a magnitude not known today, and impressive enough to frighten ancient peoples into worshipping them. Some even claim that these dragons slumber as a form of hibernation, not as a result of the Maker's wrath._

 _Regardless of the truth, legend maintains that even from their underground prisons, the Old Gods were able to whisper into the minds of men. The Archon Thalsian, first of the Magisters, who claimed to have contacted the Old God Dumat, used the blood magic Dumat taught to him to attain incredible power in Tevinter and declare himself the ruler of an Empire. In return, he established the first temples worshipping the Old Gods, and the dragons became equated everywhere with imperial power._

 _To date, four of the Old Gods are said to have risen as corrupted archdemons: Dumat, the first and most powerful, was slain at the Battle of Silent Fields. Zazikel fell at the Battle of Starkhaven, Toth died at the Battle of Hunter Fell, and Andoral was felled by Garahel, the legendary Grey Warden, at the Battle of Ayesleigh. The Archdemons have been identified only after years of argument among scholars, and to this day it is unclear whether the Archdemons were truly Old Gods and not simply dragons. All that is known is that the darkspawn hunt for them deep underground. If they are truly the Old Gods, as many scholars believe, then we have only three Blights remaining. When all the Old Gods have risen and been slain, however, what will happen? Will the Blights end forever, and humanity earn forgiveness from the Maker at last? We shall see._

Excerpted from _The Old Gods Rise Again_

by Sister Mary, Chantry scholar

Written in 8:50 Blessed


	4. Felandris

**CHAPTER THREE:** _Felandris_

 **On the last full day of our journey,** we make camp southeast of Lothering. Duncan has guided us to a small hollow set into the side of a forested hill. Fir and pine trees rise so tall and so thick on every side of the hollow that I think one could pass by every day for years on end and never notice. I mention this, and Duncan nods.

"A hunter showed me the way, years ago. I've camped her many times since."

I can see why he would return. Within, the ground is mossy and the mood peaceful. I can hear a stream burbling nearby. Straight up, peeking through branches, the first stars are visible in the dusk – but to the south, the clouds loom, darker even than the night sky, black behind the deep green of the trees.

As soon as I've finished tending to my horse, I unwrap the bandage on my left arm. The skin, filleted by the edge of Ser Randolph's blade, has healed remarkably well. This is thanks entirely to the salves Varren gave me during our flight from Highever. Following the elf's instruction, I've applied the salve every morning and night, wrapping the wound tightly with clean cloth after.

Although I still have to favor my arm during drills, the stabbing pain I felt at first is mostly gone, flaring back to life only when I am careless and catch the cut against something rough, or clench my fist too quickly. In its place is a dull, throbbing ache, but even this is cooled as I apply the salve. There will be scars, I'm sure, but without Varren's kindness, there might not be an arm at all.

Alistair told me a few days ago that the salve is made from a plant called elfroot. Feeling somewhat foolish, I asked Alistair if human healers use it, too, or only elves.

"No," he said, after laughing. "No, everyone uses it. I'm not sure why it's called _elf_ root, honestly. Probably no real reason. Maybe it just sounded better ' _man_ root,' you know? Might be tough convincing people to rub _manroot_ all over themselves. It's good in tea, too, though. Very _minty_."

It does, indeed, smell strongly of mint, something I remember noticing even in the Highever kitchens, when Varren first tended to my arm.

The smell pricks my nose now, as I spread the salve on my arm – but I there is something similar in the air, too. Something damp but not unpleasant, infused with scents of moss, pine, and herbal mint. I wonder if elfroot grows nearby, perhaps even in the hollow itself.

At my feet, Madra sighs contentedly and nuzzles against my ankles. Soft grass and thick moss pillow under her heavy body, and she's already lost in sleep, the day's long travels forgotten as one of her legs twitches slightly. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I find myself hoping she catches whatever it is she's hunting. Hopefully it's delicious, too. The poor girl deserves a feast.

I pull my bandage tight and tie it off, and step gently away from Madra's sleeping form. Near the center of the hollow, Alistair has cleared a wide circle down to bare dirt, and is coaxing a cooking fire to life. Daveth and Jory catch my eye, and together we walk toward Duncan. He's standing with his back against a tree, arms crossed. His pack rests beside him, our training blades bundled together across tangled roots.

To our surprise, Duncan waves us off.

"We'll be in Ostagar by midday tomorrow," he says. "You've all done enough. Tonight, get your rest."

It's such a shock that I'm not even sure whether to be relieved. After all, what are we supposed to do until Alistair finishes with dinner?

"Well," Daveth ventures, "suppose we could get into some of that ale? No need to save be saving it now, not if we'll be in Ostagar tomorrow. What do you say, lads?"

Jory crinkles his large nose. "No, thank you. I believe I shall go and polish my sword."

"Hah! Was thinking the same thing! Nothing like a woman's touch, but any release'll do in a pinch."

"I – no, I meant –" Jory, apparently deciding belatedly that he doesn't need to clarify after all, shakes his head in disgust and stalks away.

Daveth chuckles. "Really, what'd he expect me to say? 'Polish my sword?' Who says that?" Then he, too, turns away, still laughing to himself, and begins to rifle through his saddlebags, no doubt searching for the ale.

I've half a mind to join him for a drink, but as I shift my weight, I find Duncan standing at my elbow. And I never noticed movement, or heard a footstep, or sensed anyone beside me.

Hopefully no one notices me jump out of my skin.

"Walk with me," Duncan says. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and strides away.

…

 **I have to jog to catch up.** By the time I do, we're yards away from the burgeoning camp fire, surrounded by trees and climbing the gentle slope at the back of the hollow. Duncan glances at me, sidelong, but says nothing, just keeps on.

Our climb grows steeper. Soon the tall, thick evergreens that surrounded the hollow give way to bare trunks with peeling white bark. Aspens, I think, stretching up to a pale green canopies whose leaves shake loudly in the evening breeze.

Between the trees, the ground is mostly bare. Here and there are patches of ferns and stretches of ivy, and in a few places a twisted, woody shrub I've never seen before, covered in sharp thorns but bearing now flowers nor even any leaves.

Duncan begins to speak suddenly and without preamble, the words coming in almost a rush, so that I think he's been mulling them over for some time.

"There is no way you could know," he says, without slowing, "but I was born in Highever, near the end of the Orlesian occupation."

He's right – I didn't know. It never occurred to me to ask where Duncan was from, nor – if I'm being honest – to consider that he might have had a life before he joined the Order, or an identity beyond that of a Grey Warden.

"We lived there until just after my sixth birthday, in a cottage near the Alienage. My father owned a fishing boat, and my mother worked in the markets. I cherish the memories."

"Did you – did you grow up there?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"No. We moved to Orlais when I was still a young boy. My mother was Rivaini, the daughter of a tradesman. Her family had close ties to Orlesian nobility. I was young, but I remember my parents were afraid of what might happen if the rebels learned of her connections. So we moved to Orlais, and then between the cities in the Free Marches. Father never found the same fortune as in Highever, and my parents died not long after, within a few weeks of each other in fact. I was ten at the time."

"I'm sorry," I say, my stomach lurching as I think of my own mother and father.

"All men endure grief in their time," he replies, almost gently. "My time came earlier than some, but I reacted poorly, even for a child. I fled those who attempted to care for me, and found myself an urchin on the streets of Val Royeaux. I turned to begging, and then to thieving. The Chantry would have taken me in. In fact, they tried more than once, but I spit in the face of anyone who offered their hand, and told myself I should be proud to reject their help."

We have reached the top of the hill now, and Duncan slows to a stroll. There are no trees here, nor any ground cover besides a those strange, thorny shrubs. To the west, the sun has finished its descent, leaving only a faint glow, like embers burning behind the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks.

At the far side of the hill, still many yards away, I can just make out the silhouette of what I think must be a statue. I cannot guess its form, but it is low to the ground, much wider than it is tall, and something about it seems ancient, even weary. It's only an impression, but I feel as though the statue must have weathered more ages than any historian could.

Duncan continues to speak as we walk. "What I believed then to be pride, now brings me shame to think of. Theft led to robbery, and robbery to murder. I never intended to kill the man, you understand; I only fought him to keep what I'd stolen. But I had blood on my hands, and an appointment with a noose. As I sat in my cell, as the hours ticked by, and I thought of my childhood in Highever. I thought about how happy it had been, and how far I had fallen, and to my shame, I cursed the Maker for taking that life from me."

We stop near the center of the hilltop, and Duncan sighs heavily before turning to face me.

"The Wardens found me then, and claimed me," he says. "They invoked the Right of Conscription to pry me loose from the magistrate and the guards. Even then, I was ungrateful and resentful. I tried to cover up my guilt with anger, and did my utmost to defy my saviors at every turn. But they were patient, more patient than I deserved, and soon enough I witnessed, firsthand, the sacrifices they made, and the threat they stood against."

Duncan pauses, looking up at the stars.

Not sure whether I'm expected to say anything yet, I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. I find myself studying the statue, which seems to depict an animal laying on its stomach. Its back is to us, its head up, facing away. A wolf, maybe? Perhaps even _the_ wolf. The statue certainly looks old enough to be elven, and though I cannot see its full figure, its form is similar to the wolf pendant hanging from my neck.

"Do you believe in the Maker?" Duncan asks.

Whatever I expected, it is certainly not this.

"I – I don't think so," I stammer. Then I shake my head. More firmly, I say, "No, I don't."

Duncan nods. I can barely see his face.

"My question was unfair," he says. "Your beliefs are your own, and no concern of mine, nor the Order's. For a long time, I did not believe either. Now, however, when I look back at all I endured, I believe the Maker's hand was on me all along. I believe He led me to my place in the Order. The Wardens offered me a purpose, even after I had lost all that I held dear. That is the beauty of the Order – a purpose, even to those who have lost everything. Even to those who are lost themselves, as I was. I think sometimes that the Order offers purpose _especially_ in loss."

So all this has been some sort of elaborate rallying cry? I can feel my face tighten, but hold my tongue.

"I've been a Grey Warden more than twenty years. I do not believe this is coincidence: our Order was _born_ from tragedy – out of the countless losses of the First Blight – and our first precept is sacrifice. It is no accident that our ranks are filled with men and women who have already been broken. Most come to find solace in our calling. Some do not. But of all those I've known, I've not seen one man gain back what back fate had taken from him. Not even through vengeance."

"I look to gain nothing back!" I snap the words, momentarily forgetting my place. I have to force myself to take a long, quavering breath. "Forgive my outburst, ser," I say, although the apology is sour on my tongue. "Believe me or don't, the choice is yours. But I _know_ those I have lost are gone forever. I'm not a fool."

Duncan holds up one hand: open, mollifying. "I do not believe for a moment that you are a fool, Liam. I thought I had made that clear. Nor am I trying to belittle your grief. You and I know better than most that the things we have lost are lost to us forever. All we can do is protect what remains. Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but I presume, for you, this means not only your nephew and your brother, but the people of Highever. Soon enough, they may all need your protection from Arl Howe, and I have already said I'll not stand in your way when that time comes. But for at this very moment, as we stand here, the Blight is the greater threat by far."

Since he paused a few moments ago, Duncan's discourse has grown more intense. Although he still speaks in a hushed tone, the conviction in every word is almost overwhelming.

"You _must_ understand, Liam," he insists, his eyes boring into mine. "If we fail at Ostagar, your brother will certainly perish. And the rest of Ferelden will fall within a year – Denerim and Highever included."

He takes a shaky breath, but I sense he's not done yet.

"I see enormous potential in you, Liam," he says, his tone softening again. "You could do much for the Wardens – and I do not believe it is any exaggeration to say that deeds done in service of the Grey Wardens are also deeds done in service of all Thedas. But I also know all my reasons must seem like nothing compared to your loss. So I am sorry; I do not mean to preach."

His voice trails off, and I get the impression that, for the first time tonight, he's struggling to find the right words.

At last, almost gently, Duncan says: "I only mean to say that I hope – for our sake, and also your own – that you will find the same purpose that I have. And the same peace. But even if you find you cannot fully commit to our cause, I truly believe that this path is the best – no, the _only_ way to protect your family."

Silence hangs between us for a few moments, as I mull over Duncan's speech. Maybe I'm tired, or maybe I'm just overly trusting, but I detect no trace of insincerity. To my own surprise, I find myself nodding.

"If half of what you and Alistair have told us about the darkspawn is true," I say slowly, "then I really _would_ be a fool if I didn't understand they've got be stopped, at any cost. Much as it would pain me to see Highever under Arl Howe's rule, better that than see it fall to the Blight. So I understand what you're trying to say. Really, I do. But – but trust me when I say, I need _no_ reminding that I can't reclaim what I've lost. That's in my head every minute of every day, Duncan. So believe me, I know."

I'm speaking faster than I'm thinking now, but I don't stop.

"Like you said," I continue, almost stumbling on my own words, "all I can do is move forward. And it seems the way forward is as a Grey Warden, and I won't shrink from that. But for me to do that – to move forward, whether it's as a Warden or just at all, I have to see Howe pay. Not because it'll bring anyone back. Just because…"

Exasperated with my own inability to speak my mind, I throw up my hands in frustration. I can't help it: I laugh, because it's all I can do.

Through my laughter, I exclaim, with all the eloquence of a petulant child: "I just have to have to!"

"I understand," Duncan says, slow and calm.

For some reason, as soon as he says that, the right words find each other.

"All I need is the _chance_ ," I say, and I know it's true, truer than anything else I've managed to spit out in the last few minutes. These are the words I've needed to speak all along. "All I need is the chance, and the strength to see it through. Whether by the King's power or my own, Howe _must_ pay."

"I understand," Duncan says again. "And if we survive the next weeks, I've no doubt you will find your opportunity, as well as the strength you seek. But I would caution you, Liam: be careful what you wish for. Power is treacherous. I've seen many people – good men and women – great leaders – consumed by it."

"I don't want power for myself," I reply immediately, and I mean it. "Only power enough to make him pay. After that…"

My words trail off. Truthfully, I don't know _what_ comes after.

There's nothing left for me, is there? No lover. No home. Only the shambles of a family.

Perhaps Duncan is right – perhaps the only purpose that's left to me is among the Wardens.

"After that," I repeat, slowly. "After that, I don't know what would be left, besides the Wardens." The hollowness in that commitment isn't lost on me, and I laugh again, bitterly now. "Not exactly a resounding pledge, is it?"

To my surprise, Duncan laughs as well, shaking his head.

"No, I suppose it's not the _most_ full-throated endorsement I've heard. And yet, I think it'll do. Most people do not find themselves in our Order as a first choice."

"So Ser Jory's an exception then?" I ask, still chuckling.

Duncan's countenance darkens immediately. "You jest, I know, but the truth is, I fear for him," Duncan says. "He is not so different from Cailan. They both believe this Blight will be like the bard's songs: all valor and heroes and gleaming swords. The king seeks adventure, and Jory seeks honor. They are equally deluded."

I'm not sure Duncan intends this subtext – or even recognizes it – but in light of our conversation, it seems he is telling me that the Order is a place for the broken, not the whole.

For all his oafishness, I've detected nothing but sincerity in Jory or himself, nor in motivation. He wants to protect his country and his family – his wife and his young child. If that is not purpose enough, then perhaps it's telling that Duncan thinks a condemned cutpurse, a failed Templar, and a broken, raging lordling are better candidates for the Wardens' mission.

This ought to be disturbing, but somehow it's not. It's almost comforting.

I cannot see any part of myself the Wardens of legend – heroes clad in silver armor, riding griffons in daring assaults against demonic dragons.

But a company of damaged misfits? That seems fitting.

"Thank you for hearing me out," Duncan says. "I believe I'll walk back to the camp, unless you had any questions? You're welcome to join me, of course. Dinner should be ready soon enough. Or, if you need some time to yourself, I should think you have nearly an hour before the first watch. Perhaps you would take it? I'll to Alistair relive you before midnight for the second watch."

"Of course," I say. It's not really an option, anyway – he's just being polite.

I gesture toward the statue. "I wouldn't mind exploring a bit. This place is...different, I guess, from anywhere I think I've ever been."

Duncan nods, like he expected me to say that. "No doubt it is. The Veil is weak here, if I'm not mistaken."

I'm hardly an expert on such things, but I have no idea how Duncan could make such an observation.

The Veil, the barrier between our physical world and the Fade, is invisible and intangible; that much I remember from Brother Aldous' lessons. And although I'm wracking my memory of those same lessons, I can't recall if even the Mages are supposed to be able to sense it, let alone determine its relative strength or weakness.

"Are you – do you have magic?" I blurt.

With a stab of panic, I wonder if _all_ Grey Wardens inherit magical gifts.

I don't even know if you _can_ inherit magic, or where it is supposed to come from in the first place, but it would certainly explain the Wardens' legendary battle prowess – not to mention all the secrecy surrounding the Joining.

Before my mind can run too wild, though, I realize Duncan is chuckling and shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid not. It's a far more mundane explanation. You see those shrubs?"

Duncan is pointing one of the bare, thorny tangles I noticed earlier, and I nod.

"It's called Felandris," he says. "I'm told it's quite a unique plant, in that it grows only where the Veil is thin. Most commoners just call it demon weed."

An ominous name, but at least it's in keeping with the plant's appearance.

"Wardens come here often when we range to the south," Duncan says, "and I've never heard of any dangers here. Still, be wary. If you see or hear anything strange, come directly back to camp."

I smile, just a bit. "I won't go knocking about for any demons, if that's what you mean."

"I should hope not," he replies, so gravely that I wonder if he actually fears I might. "I've had more than one encounter with Fade creatures. They are nothing to trifle with, demons least of all."

I practically have to bite my tongue to keep from asking what he means. Demons are the Chantry's favorite bogeymen, but I know they are more than mere fairytales. Where the Veil tears, they may slip into our world, where they are hunted by Templars, and even when the Veil remains strong, they can possess unwary mages. These facts, I know – from the scriptures, from Brother Aldous' instruction, and from stories passed around by villagers – but the how and why, I do not understand.

As curious as I am, I'm also eager to be left alone here. We've been travelling for more than a week, and in that time I've been constantly in the company of others. A moment or two to myself will be welcome.

Duncan bids me farewell and turns away. As he walks back across the hilltop, I think he might be humming to himself. I don't recognize the tune, but it sounds foreign – maybe Orlesian?

As I strain my ears to pick it out, he disappears, and the humming with him.

Really, I think the notion of Duncan humming is at least as surprising as anything else he's said to me tonight – from our shared birthplace to his tacit disapproval of Ser Jory to his warnings about demon weed.

It's hard to think of Duncan as anything besides a Grey Warden – hard to think of him even as a man, I think. And yet he has history, and opinions, and – apparently – a tune stuck in his head.

…

 **I was right.** The statue depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel.

After walking most of the way around its base, and finding myself staring up, at last, at the beast's face, the conclusion is inescapable. Though none of its physical features – not the shape of its snout or the points in its ears - distinguish _this_ wolf from any others, there's no doubt in my mind. The pendant and the statue are one and the same. I could not articulate my belief any further, except to say that there's just a _sense_ about the statue: something incongruous in the tilt of the head and the set of the eyes, a sense that this wolf embodies more than one paradox: at once ominous and welcoming, ancient and playful, sad and sly.

Its torso rests on the ground, paws extending directly forward. The wolf's head is up and alert, poised to survey the forest that stretches out on the hill's far side, but the nose is crooked down, as though looking at a pup – or perhaps at smaller prey.

All around the Dread Wolf's haunches, Felandris grows thick, its woody, thorny brambles climbing the statue's flanks. But between the paws, there is no trace of the demon weed. Instead, fresh moss grows soft and thick there, and white roses climb up beneath its chin.

On this barren hilltop, surrounded by brambles and overshadowed by an ancient, somber statue, the moss and rose petals seem to me a tiny fragment of beauty in the midst of gloom and darkness.

For a few heartbeats, I stand transfixed. Ever so faintly, I can smell the scent of the roses on the evening wind. There's a sense of nostalgia, faint but aching, as though I've been here before, long ago, and am now standing outside an echo of that memory.

Then the wind picks up, and the chill snaps me out of my trance, and I turn back toward the camp.

…

 **Long after my companions have fallen sound asleep,** I sit with my back against a tree trunk. Madra's head is on my feet, and a thick wool blanket is wrapped around my shoulders. I've just finished pacing the camp's perimeter, and I'm taking a moment to rest my legs and try to coax some warmth into my bones. The night is not only cold, but dark. Though I'd rather stay here, by the fire, there is no way to keep an effective watch without venturing out beyond the camp.

Then again, I'm not sure there's any way for me to keep an effective watch. Perhaps a ranger, or a master hunter, or even one of the Wardens would be able to pick up signs of danger, but all I can see are the dim outlines of trees, and I expect when I slip out to walk between them again, all I'll hear will be the chatter of my own teeth.

And then, just as I'm beginning to talk myself into standing up again, I catch a glimpse of something moving between the trees. I see it in the corner of my eye. Whatever it is, it's well outside camp, up the far side of the hollow – further into the woods than I ought to be able to see, in fact. By the time I snap my head around, it's gone.

All I'm left with is an impression of pure white, as bright as freshly fallen snow.

Whatever I saw, it didn't seem to be moving toward the camp, and I've no sense of any danger. All the same, I give Madra a gentle nudge with my foot. She stirs immediately, lifting her head and watching inquisitively as try to stand. One of my legs has gone numb, and I have to steady myself against the tree, and as I do, the blanket falls, from my shoulder and then catches, hung up on the pommel of my sword. I curse and paw at it until it falls away, cascading gently across my hound's backside.

Madra tilts her head slightly, as though asking what my problem is tonight.

"Something in the woods, girl," I whisper.

She perks up her ears and turns her nose and eyes out toward the forest. For a few moments, she stares intently in the same direction I saw the movement. Then she sighs and seems to settle closer to the ground, and looks up at me with wide brown eyes.

 _Nothing there,_ her eyes say. _Calm down._

"If you say so. I'm going to walk around all the same. Care to join me?"

She blows out a long breath and manages to settle even closer to the ground.

A _no_ , then.

Fereldens like to say our Mabari are smart enough to speak the common tongue – they just choose not to do so. It's a joke, obviously, but every now and then, I could swear she really does understand _exactly_ what I'm saying.

Then again, sometimes I could swear I understand exactly what she's saying. Maybe we just spend too much time together.

However much she does or doesn't understand, I do know that if there were anything dangerous in the woods, she would let me know. So, as I set out through the trees, I don't mind that she chooses not to follow. I do miss my bow and quiver, though: not because I fear any threat, but because, as long as I can remember, I've always carried them with me whenever I've entered a forest. With only a short sword and dagger on my hip, I feel unprepared – or maybe just underdressed.

Although my intent was to circle the edge of the camp before exploring the area in question, I find myself climbing immediately up the side of the hollow, heading directly for the place I saw the flash of white. Glancing over my shoulder, I can still see the glow of the fire. I don't want to leave the camp too far behind, but I'm curious. Perhaps more curious than I ought to be, given Duncan's warnings about the Veil's weakness.

Then again, who ever heard of a snow-white demon?

…

 **This side of the hollow is much steeper than one Duncan and I climbed,** and I find myself at its crest almost immediately. I have to push through branches that bristle pine needles and stain my arms with sap. Beneath my feet, dried cones crunch like eggshells with every step.

No aspens here, so I'm nowhere near the Felandris or the statue. If I'm not mistaken, I may even be on the opposite side of the hollow.

After a few yards, the branches begin to clear, and I find myself alone on the forest floor. All around me, tall, barren trunks stretch up to a canopy so thick that I cannot see a single star. No sun shines on this ground during the day, I think, and no moon at night. If animals come here, they leave no trace. It is utterly quiet. Even the wind, which made the aspens shake near the Dread Wolf's statue and sent the flames of the campfire dancing and flickering in the camp below, makes no sound here.

And yet, in this emptiest of places, there's a definite sense that I'm not alone.

The sensation is not the least bit alarming, but it is persistent: a subtle insistence that I share this night, and this place.

More curious than concerned, I begin to walk. I keep the thick branches that mark the edge of the hollow in sight, so that my path takes me in a gentle arc. For perhaps five minutes, the stillness remains unbroken. The only sounds are my own footsteps.

And then, without any warning, the forest is nearly full.

I step around a small copse of younger, greener fir trees, and they're everywhere: a herd of the strangest deer I've ever seen.

They stand a head taller than any deer I've seen, on longer legs and with broader chests. Their coats and their antlers are both pure white: flawless, more pristine than the finest sheets in the finest mansion in all Thedas. And the antlers, too, are otherworldly: they twist back from high foreheads, interweaving in a fluid, graceful spiral that reminds me of many banners flying in a breeze, or a fountain of water frozen in an instant.

I'm so taken with their appearance that it's a moment before I notice another difference: these creatures are not the least bit skittish. The one nearest to me lifts it head lazily to stare at me with something slightly less than curiosity before it dropping its head again to graze on a tuft of grass.

The first grass I've seen since I climbed the hollow.

I look up, and find the canopy has thinned. I can see stars again, and there are aspens among the fir and pine. The ground is softer here, too, spongy under my feet.

Tentatively, I step forward, and find that in only a few paces I'm surrounded by the herd. At first, as I walk among them, I try to avoid disturbing the creatures. Soon enough, I realize they are perfectly willing to step out of my way. Some glance as I pass, but at least as many seem to pay me no mind at all. A few, most of them young, barely older than fawns, trot along behind me, but even they lose interest soon.

I'm not sure how far I've gone, or whether the herd is moving with me, or why I feel compelled to walk among them, but I'm startled to feel soft fur against my forearm. I expect the creature I brushed up against to bolt, or at least startle. It does nothing of the sort – nothing at all, in fact. The fur is softer than I would have guessed, and warm, and somehow even welcoming.

Intentionally, I brush against the next creature I pass, and this one does not merely tolerate me. Instead, it shifts its weight, pressing up against my side as though acknowledging me as part of the herd.

As I continue to walk, they seem to draw in closer, until they're all around, following me as the forest gives way to the hilltop.

The ground is weightless under my feet, and I'm struck by the silence. It is heavy, almost trancelike, as though the world is holding its breath. Even in the midst of this heard, I hear nothing.

If I did not feel so acutely peaceful, I might be reminded of the days after Highever, lost inside my own pain – but here there is no misery, no doubt. Just a sensation that I am floating slightly outside the world.

It is surreal. A dream into which I fall even deeper when the heard gives way, and I find that they have guided me to stand before the statue of the Dread Wolf himself.

I have not walked nearly long enough to have come to the other side of the hollow. Or have I?

And how could I have passed through evergreens to aspens, and then crossed wide, bare hilltop, without so much as noticing?

Have I really dreamt all of this? Am I sleepwalking, or hallucinating?

…

 **But a moment later,** every question evaporates.

She is standing there, facing me, her eyes aglow, her lips turned up in a smile.

She wears a flowing dress that is cut high to the neck and fastened with a golden broach. It leaves her arms bare, showing off more jewelry: tendrils of gold that climb from her wrist to her elbow in a pattern that reminds me of the creatures' horns.

The dress is emerald green, deep and bright at the same time, and as it twists around her legs in the wind, the fabric shimmers, changing hues as it moves, so that in some places it is as dark and rich as a forest, while in other places it glows with flecks of otherworldly light, like sunshine piercing stormy water. I've never seen green like this before, and yet it is achingly familiar.

There are white flowers in her hair. They're not a woven chain, the kind children make from dandelions. They're dusted in an arc, like tiny jewels fallen in the shape of a crown.

She never wore a dress like this, or jewelry, or flowers – not in Highever, nor in Landra's service – and yet I swear, this is how she was born to look.

…

" **Iona,"** I whisper, and her smile brightens.

…

 **She says nothing.**

She nods, inviting me forward.

Her eyes are locked on mine, and I realize where I've seen that green before.

Without realizing I crossed any distance at all, I'm standing toe to toe with her.

All the grief that has festered in me dissipates, smoke cleared by a steady breeze. An ache, so heavy I almost forgot it was there, is lifted.

Where the pain was, I find instead a nervous excitement. I'm back in the library, a giddy schoolboy leaning in for his first kiss, not sure whether to close my eyes or open my lips.

Her fingers, cool, brush my cheek, and I feel an urge to bow my head, like there's something in this moment that makes it holy. I do, her lips, soft wand warm, touch my forehead.

Her hands fall to my neck, one palm resting above my heart.

I feel the skin of her hand against the skin of my torso.

How can I feel her skin on mine? I'm wearing a shirt…

The fingers on her other hand work gently at the back of my neck, and I feel the necklace fall away. The hand that's over my heart catches the pendant and lifts away from me.

We're standing directly between the Dread Wolf's paws. He looks down on us, his nose almost directly above my head.

She takes a single step backwards and pivots, the hem of her dress swirling across thick moss. Then, before the statue's massive chest, Iona sinks to one knee, as if in prayer.

How much of this is real? Is she?

As I watch her – her head bowed, her hands playing across the white roses – I raise a hand to my chest. My fingers brush across rough fabric, and I grab the shirt where my pendant should hang. I knead the fabric. No pendant.

So I am wearing a shirt. But she did take the pendant.

Supplication complete, Iona rises, turns. She's smiling at me still.

Behind her, the pendant glitters. It is silver now, not the dull, worn grey that I know, but otherwise unchanged. It hangs, suspended between the thorns, like an offering to the Trickster God.

Why would she take it from me? It's all I have left of her.

With this thought in mind, I begin to protest. The first words have barely left my lips when I realize how foolish I'm being. The pendant is _not_ all I have of Iona. She is standing right there, right before me.

As if to prove this to me, she steps closer, then steps again slowly, her emerald eyes never leaving my face. As she walks, she undoes the golden brooch. Except, _undoes_ isn't the right word: he fingers touch the metal, and it seems to evaporate, disappearing into the night air like a fine mist.

Her dress falls away, pooling around her feet. She wears nothing underneath, and her beauty in the moonlight nearly undoes me.

I can't help staring her up and down, drinking in the familiar sight of her curves, of her skin, of the freckles that dust her chest.

Still, I find my gaze drawn back to her eyes.

And then body is pressed close to mine. Again, I feel the distinctly erotic brush of skin on skin. Never mind her gown, or my tunic, I know what I feel: her bare hips pressing hard, needful, against my legs; her arms, bare as they wrap around my shoulders; the hard peaks of her breasts tracing fire across my chest as her body shifts.

"It is an omen," she whispers, and I know, intuitively, that she's talking about the pendant. "I never knew, when I gave it to you, that it was so well-entrusted."

I wrap her in my arms. As I pull her closer, I slide my hands down the length of her back.

"You will avenge my blood," she whispers, her lips so close to mine that I can taste the warmth of her breath. "This, the Dread Wolf has promised me."

For an instant, our lips touch, and I'm ready to fall into her, to lose myself for as long as I can.

But she pulls away, taking my hand in hers, pulling me after her as she walks back toward the roses. She guides me to a wide, thick blanket, spread across the moss. I must have walked across it already, though I don't remember. And now, beneath my feet, it feels more like a rug, like the one in front of the hearth in my room, back at Highever.

Whatever it is, once we're at its center, she turns again and tugs at my hand, guiding me down as she sinks to her knees, so that we sink to the ground together.

And now she kisses me the way we used to, the way we did on our last night together, and it is so long and so deep that I could swear I'm not even breathing, and before it breaks, she pulls me further down as she collapses backwards, and we sprawl on the rug together, our arms and legs tangling, and our breath coming in gasps as we reclaim one another, and for now, at least, all that was wrong is set right.

…

" **Why didn't you wake me?"**

Alistair's voice is loud and unexpected – a shock as jarring as a bucket of frozen water.

My eyes snap open, and I find he's right in front of me, smiling lopsidedly.

Where the hell did he come from? And what the hell is he doing here?

My instinct is to lash out at his intrusion – to curse him for intruding on Iona and I – but in almost in the same instant, the world seems to snap into place around me. In a rush, I can feel the rough cotton of my tunic and the weight of my weapons hanging from my belt. My back is against the rough wood of the tree, and Madra slumbers at my feet, snoring with little wheezes.

Gone is Iona's warmth beside me. Gone her breath, hot on my face, and her moans, quiet in my ear. An instant ago, she lay, half-asleep, on a rug between the Wolf's outstretched paws, the stars overhead. An instant ago, everything was right.

But it's vanished, all of it, in less than a heartbeat, so quickly and so absolutely that I'm dizzy, my head throbbing as the world spins around me.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asks. He's genuinely concerned, his smile fading quickly.

Above us, the moon is bright, casting shadows across the camp. The fire's embers have all but extinguished. I can tell intuitively it's well past midnight – well past the end of my watch.

With a free hand, I grab at the tree behind me, afraid I may tip over otherwise.

"Uh…what?" I manage, as the spinning slows. "I mean, yes. Yeah, I'm – I'm fine. Just – just a little dizzy is all."

Apparently I've found the right excuse, because his face relaxes immediately. "I don't doubt it!" he exclaims. You must be exhausted! It's into the third watch by now. You really should have woke me," he continues, smiling again. "Mind you, the extra sleep was glorious, but you can't be stretching yourself that far, Liam. You've got… well, we've all got some rough days ahead, I expect. Still, all the same, _thank you._ "

The way he says it, I think this might be the first _nice_ thing someone's done for Alistair in a long time.

Ironic, since I haven't even done anything at all. Not anything I meant to, anyhow.

"Was I – did I fall asleep?" It's only as I ask the question that its implication – the terrible, gnawing implication – becomes clear.

It's so obvious. I was asleep. I _had_ to be asleep. It's the only thing that makes sense.

And that means it was all a dream.

A dream.

The realization crushes me, and I turn away quickly, so that Alistair won't see as tears burst down my cheeks, hot and bitter.

I dreamt it all.

Behind me, Alistair is oblivious. "No, I don't think so," he says, answering my question. "You don't remember telling me hello when I got up?"

"No, I – I do." I have to choke the words out, hoping nothing in my voice betrays me. "Just tired."

"Then go and get some rest! And thanks again, that was awfully kind of you to take so much of my watch. Stupid, probably, but mostly kind."

As I stumble away from him, I wave it off, like it's nothing.

Like my own dreams haven't just cut open my heart.

…

 **My bedroll is not where I left it**. I had laid the blankets out here, not far from the horses, before Duncan bade me walk with him. They were in the same place, untouched, when I began my watch. I know they were, because I left the saddlebags at the head of the blankets, and I remember that because, before the watch, I got into the bags to refill my canteen and fetch a treat for Madra. It was here.

But there's not thing here now.

Confused, still blinking back tears, I turn slowly in a full circle, surveying the whole hollow, wondering if maybe I'm so tired that I'm looking in the wrong place.

I hope Alistair can't see. I must look like a fool to him. If he didn't think I fell asleep on duty before, he certainly must now, if he's watching. He must think me not only unreliable, but a fool. Who in all Thedas misplaces their fucking bedroll?

But I finish my turn, and still I haven't seen my blankets, or my saddlebags. Looking back down where they ought to be, I find dirt is scuffed, the pine needles pushed aside. It's as though blankets and saddlebags _had_ been there, but have since been moved.

This is all a bit too much.

I look up helplessly, broken and befuddled, only to find Madra staring at me, her tongue lolling.

She twitches her head as though barking, but makes no sound. Then she turns happily, her stub of a tail wagging furiously, and trots off into the woods. She's headed in almost the exact opposite of the direction I went when I found the snow-white deer – _if_ I found them. That, too, could be a dream.

In fact, it almost certainly is a dream – what else could it be?

When I've almost lost sight of her, she stops and turns back over her shoulder, looking at me expectantly.

Not sure what else to do, I shuffle off after her, wondering if perhaps Madra herself moved my bedroll. It would not be _unlike_ her to play some bizarre canine game while my mind drifted away on the watch. Hell, I wouldn't even put it past her to have moved my bedroll to teach me a lesson. In different circumstances, it might even be funny.

As it is, I'm stuck wiping bitter tears away. I'm angry, now. Angry at myself, for weeping, and angry at myself for dreaming, besides – and angry at the dreams themselves. Why would my own mind taunt me so? And if dreams really do come from the Fade, what sort of realm must it be to tear away the scabs of pain and loss that have only begun to heal?

Fuck this, I decide. Fuck it all.

Fuck this, and fuck the Fade, if it is even real.

Fuck the Maker, too, if He exists.

Fuck it all.

What's next? Dreams of my family's embrace? Of drinking with Aeron? Dreams of Oren, reunited with his mother? Dreams of Oriana, her newborn baby cooing in her arms and not dead in her womb?

By the time I catch up to Madra, I am shaking - fists clenches, arms trembling. Still, the tears flow, and I hate my own weakness. It's no surprise, either: I've got more than enough hate to go around, why not keep some for myself?

Even self-loathing is no excuse, though, and my pitiful display solves nothing.

Concentrating hard on this single action, I force myself to take a long breath. My first attempt is weak, just a rattle in my chest, so I let my shoulders relax and try again. This time I keep drawing in more and more air, until my lungs are so full it's almost painful.

The shaking begins to subside, and after few heartbeats, I allow myself to exhale.

Tension bleeds out of my shoulders.

Another breath.

I repeat this process over and over.

I'm trying to leave this night behind, trying to get my thoughts in line.

My fingers release the fists they've made, and I look up.

…

 **I find Madra standing over my bedroll,** studying it quizzically. She knows better than to step on the blankets without permission, but she's got her nose as close as she can. She's snuffling loudly, like she's trying to catch a scent.

Until now, I'd assumed Madra must have been responsible for dragging my things away from the camp, but the blankets are laid out neatly. My overcoat is folded at the top of the bedroll, just as I left it, to serve as a makeshift pillow, and the saddlebags, too, are in place, just to the side of the blankets. Nothing would seem to have been touched at all, in fact, except that it has moved at least fifty yards since I last saw it.

A prank by one of the other recruits?

Daveth seems to possess an impish streak, but he's been nothing but kind to me, and from what little I know of his life, he's well acquainted with sorrows of his own. In other circumstances, I can imagine him pulling a stunt like this, but not now – not when we are all exhausted, and not on the eve of whatever awaits us in Ostagar, and certainly not in light of my own grief.

As for Alistair or Jory, I think they are even less likely as suspects.

Some test by Duncan, then? But to what end?

There's another explanation, I suppose: it could very well be that I'm just going mad.

Maybe when I broke after Highever, I never actually pulled myself back together. Maybe the last few days have just been a break in the storm, a temporary respite. And why not? The odd feeling at the statue after I talked to Duncan. The dream – and a waking dream at that, if Alistair was honest when he said I greeted him. And now this misplaced bedroll. It seems evidence enough, doesn't it?

But whatever the explanation may be, it's a problem for tomorrow.

Right now, I'm exhausted. It's in every bone and every fiber – like I've run a race and studied a dozen texts and been beaten with training blades for hours, and all of that all at once. All I can think of is sleep.

I nudge Madra aside and slip into the bedroll without bothering even to remove my boots.

As soon as I lay down, I find someone else already resting there. Long hair is splayed out across the rolled overcoat, and the blankets are already warm.

None of this surprises me.

Iona sighs sleepily and rolls toward me, naked beneath my rough blankets. She hooks her knee over my hips, and I can feel her smooth skin all the way down the back of my legs. One arm snakes over my bare shoulder.

"But, you…" I begin to whisper, afraid my dreams are taunting me again.

She silences me with a kiss.

Earlier tonight, between the wolf's paws, her lips were hungry, needful.

They are lazy now. They welcome me, but without any urgency.

"Hush, my love," she whispers, and kisses me again, ever slower than before.

"You are mine," she whispers. "Always mine."

She's falling asleep, I realize. Falling asleep in my arms, as she has so many times before.

As she did the night before she died.

And yet, she is not dead now.

This woman in my arms is no corpse.

Her murmured promises of love are no lie.

Maybe everything else has been a dream. Maybe we are still in my bed in Highever. Certainly the blankets do not feel rough, like my bedroll, and the ground is as soft as a mattress.

Maybe everything else is madness.

As I close my eyes, losing myself to my weariness and to the softness of her skin pressed against me, I suppose it doesn't matter, not right now.

If this is madness, I want no taste of reality.

And if it is a dream, I hope I do not wake.

…

 **But wake I do,** in the pale light just before sunrise, and I find she has gone.

It was a dream, and only a dream.

There should be grief, but I feel none. Nor any guilt, nor any fear.

There is only peace.

And although my chest is still warm where her head rested, the peace itself is cold: the cold of a still winter day, when all the snow has fallen and the sky is pale and wide, the sort of day when nothing moves and there is not a sound to be heard.

…

 **On this early morning** , however, I can already hear movement from the camp behind me – muffled voices, the rustle of tired movement. Soon enough, the crunch of footsteps. Then Alistair's voice.

"Did you sleep well?"

He sounds unduly chipper for such a wee hour, but I suppose it's in keeping with his personality that he turn out to be a morning person.

"Thanks again for spotting so much of the watch last night," he continues. "I feel like a new man! Breakfast's just about ready."

When I twist in my blankets to face him, I have to put weight on my injured arm, and am pleasantly surprised when no pain shoots up from my wrist. Actually, for the first time in many days, I feel no pain at all – no stiffness in my back, to chafing from the saddle, no throbbing in my gums.

Before I have time to digest this realization, I'm treated to another surprise: my bedroll is only a few feet from the campfire, exactly where I laid it out when we arrived in the hollow. My companions are nearby, Daveth still rubbing his eyes while Jory and Duncan bundle their gear for our last few hours of travel.

The confusion I'm feeling must be writ large on my face, because Alistair cocks his head to one side. "Are you – are you quite all right?" he asks.

I nod my head, although it takes me just a moment too long to do so, and when I do, the nod is perhaps a just a bit too vigorous.

Alistair scrunches his eyebrows together, not trusting my response. He looks worried. Something in his expression reminds me that he's a few years my junior. He may be a Warden, and he may be our mentor, but right now, he looks more like a boy than I man.

"Did I fall asleep on watch?" I ask, grinning sheepishly.

Immediately, his face relaxes into a smile. "Oh, that!" he exclaims. "No, no, not at all! You let me sleep over, actually. When I thanked you, though, you got a bit funny, asking me that same thing – if you fell asleep. But like I told you then, you couldn't have, you were up and pacing when I finally did wake up, and you said 'Hello,' when I got up."

Though it's unsettling that I've no recollection of this, but I try to smile. "If you say so."

"It's not hard to get a bit rummy on watch, even when your relief comes on time. Long enough hours like that, they can start to play tricks with your mind."

I nod uncomfortably and sit up fully, trying to make sense of a night that's missing the real memories, and filled up with impossible ones.

Alistair, oblivious to any of this, chatters on.

" _Actually,_ " he says, like he's about to share a particularly interesting story, "it reminds me of nights on watch when I was studying to be a templar. It used to get so quiet at the monastery. One night I just started screaming until the brothers came running!" He's laughing at his own story now. "I told them I was just checking. You never know, right?"

He's looking at me expectantly, and I genuinely don't know how to respond.

"Um," I say. "I guess."

It's not the reaction he was looking for, I guess. A faint flush spreads across his cheeks. Maybe he's only just realized this story is not all that flattering?

"Well, suit yourself," he says, trying to recover his dignity with a shaky grin. "The look on their face was priceless, anyway."

"I'll bet," I say, trying to sound convincing.

"Anyhow! Breakfast!" The way he says it makes me think this is what he came over to tell me in the first place. "I didn't wake you sooner because – well, you took so much of my watch, I thought you might want the extra rest. Thanks again, by the way."

"Don't mention it," I say, somewhat hopefully.

"Okay, well...well, I'll see you at breakfast, I guess."

He turns awkwardly – jerkily, even – and hustles back toward the fire.

Actually, awkward is how I'd describe every conversation I've had with Alistair that's not directly related to Wardens or darkspawn. Whatever else the templars taught him, they don't seem to have covered small talk.

"Hey, Alistair," I call after him, on impulse. "Did you notice anything – anything odd last night?"

Behind him, standing near the horses, I notice Duncan stops moving. He's listening. How very like him.

"Odd? Odd like – well, how do you mean?"

"Just... anything at all?"

He appears to think for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Not really. Well, just the halla, I suppose. You don't see them every day."

"Halla?" I ask, wondering if I've misheard.

"White deer with funny horns," he says casually. "They're pretty rare, especially up north. I've only seen them twice before, always deep in the woods. Anyway, a heard of them went past the camp last night, maybe an hour after I took over the watch? Beautiful creatures. I've heard their horns sell for a fortune, but I couldn't imagine ever killing one."

"Oh," I say, and turn away as quickly as I can. I hope Alistair and Duncan didn't see my face, which I'm quite certain has drained of all color.

My mind is racing.

If the halla were real, what else was real?

Duncan said the Veil was weak here, with the Felandris as evidence. He warned me to be on guard, and although we joked about demons. But the Chantry also teaches that the Fade is also the realm through which souls wander as they make their way to eternal rest at the Maker's side.

It's nothing I ever put stock in before.

But if the halla were real, and if the Veil is weak, then what else was real?

Without even realizing I'm doing so, I raise my fingers to my neck, where Iona's pendant should rest...and I find it, too, has gone.

…

 **I take the path to the hilltop as fast as I can,** Madra bounding at my heels, my excuses to the others still echoing in my head. When I stammered that I'd be right back – that I just had to check something, just over there – the other three looked at me like I was crazy, but Duncan simply nodded and turned back to his saddlebags.

I get the feeling that very little surprises Duncan.

When I climbed the hill last night with Duncan, it seemed quite a distance, but the clearing opens before me within minutes. I break into a run, my pulse hammering in my neck, not from the climb but from anticipation. I do not expect to find Iona waiting for me. In fact, I know, somewhere deep down, that she is no longer here.

What exactly I _do_ expect, I have no idea.

As I reach the statue, I slow to a jog and then to a walk.

In the daylight, everything is as it was when Duncan and I spoke of purpose and loss. There is no blanket spread between the Dread Wolf's paws. No trace of golden jewelry, no emerald gown. No impression in the moss where a blanket might have been, or two people might have made love.

But then it catches my eye: a glint of light, just below eye level. The Fen'Harel pendant hangs from the branches of a rose bush, where Iona placed it last night after she took it from my neck. It is the same pendant I've worn all these years, but it is also new. It has been remade. The silver is bright, as though freshly polished, and intricacies, details of the wolf's face and flanks worn away by time, now appear as clearly as though freshly etched by a master jeweler.

It was not a dream.

I fall to my knees in front of the roses, the petals glowing white in the morning sun, like the halla in the moonlight. Hot tears roll down my cheeks, as big as raindrops, nothing like the tears I cried last night, when I thought it had all been a cruel trick of the Fade.

As I lift the chain from the rose – gingerly – breathlessly – the relief I feel is transcendent.

I slip it over my head, and the pendant settles back to its familiar place on my chest. I half expect the spell to break and the silver to dull as soon as it touches my skin, but instead, I find its brightness unchanged, and the metal itself unnaturally cold.

So cold, in fact, that for an instant it burns white-hot, a flare that stabs through my chest.

The intensity fades almost immediately, but the metal remains cold as I stand and wipe my eyes.

It was not a dream. I whisper the words to myself, and feel a smile spread on my face.

With the smile comes the same peace I felt when I first woke.

I look up, and find I am staring directly at the Dread Wolf's impassive, stone face. My right hand rises to the pendant, and I lift it from my chest, holding it out to its grander brother.

"It is an omen," Iona told me as she placed the pendant on the rose.

"You will avenge my blood," she told me.

"This, the Dread Wolf has promised me," she said.

And, for some reason, standing in the Shadow of the Dread Wolf, I believe this utterly.

...

...

...

 **CODEX: The Sixth Song**

 _The flags are chasing the sun_

 _And the wind is racing after the day_

 _And everyone chases beauty they do not have_

 _And I – I – I am chasing after you_

 _The raindrops fall, searching for a home_

 _The dragons gasp, searching for the air_

 _And everyone searches for a reason they do not have_

 _And I – I – I am searching for you_

 _We are only dreaming_

 _And I am dreaming only of you_

 _We are only dreaming_

 _And I'm dreaming only of you_

 _The soldiers come, waiting for the war_

 _In the longest winter night_

 _And the mother's weep, waiting for the peace_

 _In the longest winter night_

 _And everybody's waiting for the sunrise_

 _And I – I – I am waiting for you_

 _We are only dreaming_

 _And I am dreaming only of you_

 _We are only dreaming_

 _And I am dreaming only of you_

"The Sixth Song"

 _The Sixth Song, one of the best-known of the traditional Ferelden Folk Songs, is believed to have been written in the early Divine Age. It language has been updated over time, but, unlike many other folk songs, the tune and the substance have remained largely unchanged. The lyrics highlight the discord between the material world and the world of dreams, also known as the Fade. Most common folk believe the subject of the song is a lost lover, but many scholars believe the subject is actually the Maker, who has turned his back on the earthly concerns elucidated in the verses._

Excerpted from _A Wanted Voyage: A Commentary of the Oldest Songs_

by Barnett Ezra, bard and scholar, 9:17 Dragon


	5. How Men Speak of Their King

**CHAPTER FOUR:** _The Manner in Which Men Speak of their King_

 **The clouds that we first saw yesterday,** looming on the southern horizon, hang over us now. We come under their shade soon after the hollow, and at first they are barely wisps, no more than a thin veil that distorts the glare of the sun.

Our path rejoins the old Imperial Highway, and we find it is no longer held aloft by great stone arches. It clings to the rough earth instead, carving a wide path between evergreens that otherwise blanket the landscape. The silence becomes eerie. There are no farms here, no dirt tracks worn down by carts, no telltale evidence of livestock or hunters. Other than the Highway itself, in fact, there is no sign that men have ever been here.

The ground begins to rise, leading us on a slow but steady ascent. Overhead, the sky grows darker with every mile, until at last the sun disappears entirely.

After so many days spent traveling, the ache of the saddle and the lag in Madra's steps and the dryness in my throat tell the time as well as any hourglass or sundial. It is still wellbefore noon, I'm certain. Yet, as I look around the sparse forest, its trees shadowless under grey light, the hour could as easily be dawn or dusk.

This flat ambiguity feels strangely oppressive. Even the air is heavy. It reminds me of the tension just before a summer storm, when all of Highever would wait, seemingly with bated breath, for the gales to rise and the lightening to split the sky.

We encounter some of the king's scouts in the woods. They wave us past with barely a word, recognizing the griffon sigil on Duncan's armor and Alistair's shield. Their scouts carry bows in hand, not slung on their backs, and a few have arrows nocked. Their faces are tight.

Soon after, the forest begins to thin, and the ground levels off. After running more or less due south since the crossroads at Lothering, the Highway swings abruptly west. The reason is clear soon enough. We ride out from a copse of trees and find that a cliff drops away on our left, almost from the Highway's edge, while a barren plain stretches away on our right.

Ahead, the cliff runs east-to-west, as far as I can see. At its base, a forest, far thicker and greener than the one through which we have just passed, stretches out to the horizon. Mist rises from its canopy in thick, pale plumes, like smoke from a ghostly campfire.

Duncan rises in his saddle and turns. "Behold," he says, with perhaps the hint of a smile. "The southernmost boundary of Ferelden; indeed, of all known civilization. This ridge runs from the Brecilian Forest to the Frostbacks. It has separated the lowlands from the Wilds since time immemorial, and now it guards the Hinterlands and the Bannorn more truly than any wall man ever built. Had the Maker not placed it here at the dawn of Creation, Ferelden would already be lost."

"Are the darkspawn really below us now?" Jory asks. His voice sounds thin.

"They are," Alistair answers, grimly. "The woods are teeming with them, I'm afraid."

This sort of talk does nothing to reduce my discomfort. Glancing down at Madra, I can see she is on edge as well. Her ears are pricked, and she has not strayed from beside my horse for miles.

Slowly, echoes of Tevinter emerge from the land. The Imperium's ruins are visible here and there, as the outline of a well hidden beneath lichen and fallen leaves, or a pillar rising up among rocks, or an ancient archway peeking out between stands of trees. Soon, a wall, mostly still intact, shadows us on the right, drawing nearer by increments, so that the Highway is eventually funneled between the cliff and the old fortification.

Over the wall, I spot a faded blue dome that has almost completely fallen in on itself. Perhaps a half a mile further, a tower, easily half again as tall as Highever's Keep, rises into the grey sky. It appears to in better condition than the other ruins we have passed, and I can see movement in its windows. The king's banner hangs from its sides: yellow and white like the Howe family crest, but emblazoned with crimson Mabari rather than a brown bear.

It would seem, at long last, that we have arrived in Ostagar.

Early on, even in the midst of my grief, there were small thrills of discovery when we passed an unexpected waterfall, or crested a hill to find an idyllic vista, or passed by some ancient ruin. Now – although we have crossed a nation – and although the spires and walls and arches that emerge with regularity are truly impressive, vast and ornate and sprawling and ancient, all in equal measure – and though I have never travelled so far in all my life – now, there is no triumph at the end of this long journey. No sense of achievement. Not even a sigh of relief.

Ahead, a wooden bulwark has been built on the highway, with sharpened stakes pointing out toward us. There is just enough room between the right-hand wall and the bulwark for a cart to pass through.

A soldier wearing grey plate armor greets us with a weary smile. A splash of color on his left paldroun signifies his rank as captain. A half a dozen swordsman stand behind him, looking to him for guidance.

"Wardens," he calls out. "Glad to see you."

"Any trouble today, Captain?" Duncan asks.

"Not yet, my lord."

The captain and his men step aside, allowing us to pass. They incline their heads respectfully to Duncan. It seems the Warden Commander is well known to the army.

Just beyond the first bulwark, we must turn leftto skirt around a second. The two bulwarks are positioned such that anyone coming along the Highway must wind through a narrow alley between them before continuing along the Highway. There are ramparts behind each bulwark, as well, on which archers pace back and forth. With a vantage point like that, any archer with half a wit and an ounce of strength left in his arm could clog the highway with bodies. You'd be limited only by the size of your quiver, I think.

If the same care has been paid throughout Ostagar, then the Ferelden Army holds a very strong position. Whoever laid out the defenses, here at least, did so with a mind for contingencies.

Aeron, I think, would be delighted. Tactics were always a special fondness of his, and how best to lay siege to this castle or that city was a favorite topic when we travelled together. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing he were with us.

Though Duncan has convinced me of the necessity of the Wardens' calling, I still cannot help but think Aeron would be able to do far more for the cause than I could ever hope myself. If nothing else, I know he'd have had some jest to throw in the face of this foreboding. Some smart remark to make me smile in spite of myself. Maybe even to make me laugh.

We pass by the second bulwark, threading between its edge and the sheer face of the cliff. As soon as we are through, the cliff flares away to the south, and the wall to the north, leaving a wide swath of open grass. The camp begins immediately, filling the empty space with an expanse of colorful canvas tents, hastily-assembled log buildings, fluttering banners, carts and stalls, campfires and stacks of firewood, horses and donkeys tied up in stalls, sentries standing watch, and men and women moving back and forth, some walking, some marching, a few running.

Ahead, winding through all the hustle and bustle, a small party is coming out to greet us. Three are human, one a dwarf. All are armed and armored, but they do not look like the other soldiers. They move with swagger that regular soldiers do not display, and with none of the nervous edge.

"Duncan!" the dwarf barks, lumbering ahead of his companions.

His head is shaved, and dark, blocky tattoos cover the parts of his face that aren't already masked by an enormous beard. His breastplate, though scuffed, is burnished silver, and bears the Wardens crest.

"About damn time!" The dwarf is still yelling, but he's also smiling broadly. "Shit's about to kick off. Feel it in my bones. Figures you'd turn up just in time for the bloody bits!"

Duncan slips from his saddle and clasps the bald dwarf's outstretched hand before pulling him into a hug. The embrace looks a bit awkward, thanks to the marked differences in stature. Even so, neither pulls away, choosing instead to slap each other on the back several times first.

"What took you?" the dwarf asks, when Duncan finally straightens. "Half-thought you'd been recalled to the Orlesian border, or just given up on us."

"Give up? Never. As for Orlais, there's been no word from our garrison there, nor any word from Weisshaupt. As for us, we were... _delayed_ in Highever. There is much to discuss, I fear, but the King must hear it first."

"Aye, figures. He's waiting for you at the bridge. Can barely contain his royal self."

Beside them, Alistair dismounts and greets two of the men formally, deferentially even. They nod to him, then turn back to openly appraising me, Daveth, and Jory.

Alistair seems more familiar last and youngest, a youth about my age whose fresh face is at odds with haunted, sunken eyes. They speak quietly together, turning away from the rest of us. Alistair says something that makes the other Warden chuckle.

The dwarf has turned, and joined his fellows in staring at the recruits.

"Not much fresh meat, old friend," he remarks to Duncan. "They all you could find?"

"There were other prospects," Duncan says, "but fate intervened."

The way he says it, I think that perhaps Aeron was not the only recruit to slip through his fingers.

"They up to it, you reckon?" asks the dwarf.

"We shall see soon enough." Duncan turns and points to each of us. "Ser Dairren Jory of Caer Oswin, who volunteered himself to our cause. Ser Liam Cousland, of Highever. And Daveth, a cutpurse I appropriated from the Denerim guard."

"Heh," one of the men chuckles. " _That_ sounds familiar."

Korith and the other two chuckle as well, nodding.

Duncan smiles. The other Wardens know of his past, then. I wonder if any secrets are kept within the Order?

"Recruits," he says to us, "meet some of your future brothers."

The dwarf is called Korith. The youngest of the men, the one standing with Alistair, is an Orlesian named Desmond. Besides Alistair, he is the most junior of the Wardens in Ferelden. The other two are called Andrej and Nix. Each nods to us as they are introduced.

None are identified by a title, I notice, and I guess we have only been told their first names. Odd that the Wardens themselves are named with less formality than the recruits. Perhaps title and birthright really are meaningless once one is inducted.

There follows a brief discussion, in which Duncan dismisses Daveth and Jory, directing them to go with Alistair, Desmond, Nix, and Andrej. They are to take the horses to the king's farriers, then be shown to the Warden's tent in the upper camp, whatever that means, and given an opportunity to settle in.

"Their Joining will take place tonight, or tomorrow at the latest," Duncan advises, which seems to mean something more to the Wardens than it does me or my fellow recruits. "If you would guide Daveth and Ser Jory to our camp, I imagine they would appreciate some lunch before tending to their horses. Korith and I will go to meet King Cailan." Duncan passes his mare's reigns to Nix before looking to me. "Liam, you should join us. You will have news for his Highness, I expect."

…

 **Andrej takes my horse,** and Daveth my hound.

I remove my father's sword from the saddle and strapthe scabbard across my back. I've not worn it since I fled Highever Castle, and drawn when I needed to dry the blade after fording a river. Buckling the straps is awkward, and its weight is unfamiliar on my shoulders. There is probably no danger in leaving it on my saddle, but I am not willing to take the chance. The sword is all I have of my family, and I will not risk some scavenger pilfering it when Andrej is elsewhere, just to sell it off for a few coins.

For her part, Madra glowers at me when I direct her to go with Daveth. If she still sensed the darkspawn, or if I commanded her to follow anyone but Daveth, she might outright defy my instruction. Even a well-trained Mabari will ignore commands on occasion, choosing loyalty over obedience. If we do finally find ourselves in a battle, for instance, I know that no words – nor even a beating – will be enough to separate her from me.

As it is, she regards me dolefully as I follow Duncan and Korith away.

Around us, it is clear that the care paid to the Highway fortification was no fluke. The army is well-entrenched. Stockades crisscross the open spaces, linking up with Ostagar's ruins in places, bridging gaps where stone has fallen away in others. Sentries pace their routes, squads practice maneuvers, and groups of men and women hack away at straw training dummies with ferocious abandon.

The soldiers wear leather armor over kilts and tunics, and most carry their weapons trapped across their backs. Some seem to be professionals, especially the archers and dog-handlers. Many, however, look like untrained volunteers, peasant militia called up by their banns and arls. Here and there, I can see knights, too, their armor gleaming even in the dull half-light.

I see nobles, too, and most are of the sort who ought not to be here. They belong on thrones in halls, or on dance floors, or perhaps on advisory panels for the king's economic policy. They do not belong in a war.

Some carry swords, others are completely unarmed. Most are accompanied by entourages: courtesans, scribes, stewards, guards, and, in a few cases, family members, even children. They pace here and there, inspecting the soldiers and defenses, clearly uncomfortable in these surroundings, their eyes darting left and right, their shoulders held too tight. Though they talk and laugh amongst themselves, they talk too quickly, and laugh too hard. They're acting like skittish herd animals, afraid of unseen predators.

The most notable of the groups we pass, however, is a band of bare-chested warriors. They wear their hair long, in intricate braids that fall to the small of their back, and carry axes so enormous that I'm convinced I couldn't lift the pommel. Some are playing with Mabari, chasing and being chased by the gleeful hounds, while other stand together, talking loudly and hoisting mugs of what must be ale. The bodies of both the men and the dogs are decorated with ash-colored paint that winds in patterns across their torsos and up onto their faces.

One of these strange men sees Duncan and waves once in a wide arc.

Duncan nods in return.

Korith mutters something, and Duncan chuckles, then turns to me.

"Ash Warriors," he explains.

Though I've never seen them before, I can't help feeling as though I should have realized this on my own. Among Fereldens, the Ash Warriors are folk heroes of a sort, as famous as the Grey Wardens, and perhaps even more beloved. They are mercenaries of a sort, though they are rumored to work not for coin but for Andraste's favor, pursuing any cause they believe just. It's also said that they've taught themselves the barbarian arts of blood rage, able to fight with the strength of a dozen men and shrug off injuries that would cripple most. It's said they believe this is a gift, sign of Andraste's blessing. They consider it a gift, as well, to die in service of a good cause.

The one who waved at Duncan – a tall man with dark hair and a close cut beard – staggers toward us. He wears nothing but boots, a kilt, and a thick leather strap across the chest, there to support his axe. He is so well-muscled, however, that his skin looks almost like armor of its own.

"Well met, Warden!" he calls, his voice thick with alcohol. "Leave some of the vermin for us!"

"There are always plenty of darkspawn, I fear."

"Not when we're through with them!" another of the Ash Warriors calls out.

His fellows burst into raucous laughter.

When we've passed them well by, I mention they seem in high spirits.

"They should," Korith says. "They're already dead."

"Pardon?"

The dwarf chuckles. "You didn't know? They're drunk at their own funerals."

"You – you really think they'll all die?" I ask.

With that, Korith twists his head and stares at me like I'm the one who's drunk. Then he shakes his head. "What do they teach you humans?" He sighs exaggeratedly. "No, kid, I think they're more likely to live than most. They're _literally_ drunk at their own funerals. That's their little ritual, see? They have a big funeral for themselves before battle, so they're already dead, so they won't be afraid to get _more_ dead, or some such shit like that. And they won't stop until after the battle's done, either. I've seen the bastards so fuckin' wasted, they keep fighting while they're missing their own legs." The dwarf chuckles. "Each to this own, I guess. And it does seem to work for them."

"Oh," I say.

How else to respond, after all, when legendary holy warriors turn out to be no more than burly drunkards? Not every story sung by the bards holds its luster on further inspection, I suppose. Not even those that are purported to be true.

Really, I shouldn't be surprised. Hasn't Duncan told me, only last night, that the Grey Wardens are best served by the lost and the broken? Why, then, should Andraste's folk heroes be any different?

This ought to be disheartening, but the more I think on it, the funnier it seems, until I can't help smiling, and then chuckling.

When Korith glances at me over his shoulder, curious, I'm grinning and shaking my head.

Seeming to understand, he grins as well, and winks.

"Weird and wonderful world, ain't it, kid?"

...

 **We have walked perhaps a quarter of a mile into the camp,** and I think I am beginning to glimpse the bridge that Korith keeps referring to – the same one, I think, that Duncan told us spans the valley at the center of the fortress – when I see him.

King Cailan is half-hidden behind an ancient stone column, all that remains of an archway that one stood higher than ten men, chatting easily with a shoddily clad soldier, probably one of the peasant militia. They both appear so at ease that I doubt I would have recognized our monarch at all, were it not for the royal armor and the undeniably star-struck expression on the peasant's face. They might be a soldier and his commander, or a commoner and his lord.

As it is, my eye is drawn first to the three knights arrayed around King Cailan. They are resplendent in matching sets of silver armor, and crimson plumes blow in the wind atop full-faced helmets. Tiny, ornate shields are pinned to each knight's left paldroun, bearing the crest of the knight's house, but these are no token nobles: though they appear confident, perhaps even relaxed, but their hands rest on the pommels of sword, and each one is constantly shifting his weight and his gaze, so that between the three of them, no one could approach within a hundred yards of the king without being seen.

A mere moment after I spot the knights and the king, Cailan looks up from the soldier he's been speaking with. His face – more boyish than I expected – splits into a broad grin. He says something to the soldier, slaps the man's shoulder, and begins to pace toward us.

"Ho there!" He calls out, his voice booming across open ground. "Duncan!"

I follow Duncan as he turns to meet the king, but stop well before they meet, thinking to hang back until called upon. Korith nudges my elbow, beckoning me forward instead.

"Welcome back, my friend." The king is near enough to grab Duncan's shoulders, stopping him in the middle of a bow and righting him. "No need for that," he says, still beaming. "I am glad to see you, too glad to stand on such formality!"

Erring on the side of caution, Korith and I bow anyway, as low as we can.

"My lord," Duncan says. "I did not expect a royal welcome."

The king's armor is the most beautiful I've ever seen. It is plated over with gold and inlaid with silver patterns woven across the breastplate, paldrouns, and armpieces. On his back, he carries a greatsword, not unlike the one Ser Randolph used to fillet my arm, though the king's is infinitely finer: there are gems in the hilt, and even the scabbard is a work of art, with soft leather layered and dyed into a tapestry that seems to depict a battle between men and werewolves. He wears no helmet, nor any crown.

"A royal welcome?" Cailan repeats, and then tosses his head back and laughs gaily. His blond hair is tied back into a ponytail, almost as long as the braids worn by the Ash Warriors. "No welcome is too royal for the esteemed commander of our Grey Wardens! Besides, I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun."

"Not if I could help it, Your Majesty."

"Excellent! I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side as we ride to glorious battle after all! The other Wardens tell me you've been searching for recruits. I take it this young man is among them?"

I straighten from my bow and find King Cailan looking me square in the face. He's smiling, not just politely but with genuine enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkle with interest and good humor. I've often heard the king described as charismatic, but I didn't give enough credence to this reputation.

"Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty," Duncan begins, but the king cuts him off with a waved hand.

"No need, my friend, no need at all. You are Bryce's youngest, Liam Cousland, are you not? I don't think we've ever actually met, but you are your Father's spitting image. Your brother has already arrived with Highever's men, but we are still awaiting your father."

Immediately, the king's brows knit together, and his smile disappears. Something in my face must have given it away.

"What is it, young ser?" he asks, although he cannot be more than five years my senior.

"You – you haven't heard?" My voice nearly cracks. King Cailan will be the first person for whom my parents' death comes as news and, for some reason, this lends the words I am about to speak an added weight.

"Heard what?" he asks, now genuinely concerned. "News from the north has been unreliable. What's happened?"

"My – my father is dead, My Lord." Despite my best intentions, I cannot help choking on the words.

Immediately, the King of Ferelden steps forward, passing Duncan, and grips my shoulders. He lowers his head as well, so we are eye to eye.

"Dead?" His voice is low, pained. "I am truly sorry! Teyrn Cousland was among Ferelden's greatest men. I pray you, tell me what has happened?"

"They were – they were murdered..."

"Duncan?" the king demands, straightening.

"It is true, Your Highness. Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor, and overtook Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us all, and told you any story he wished."

"I – I can scarcely believe it! How could he think he would get away with such villainy? I wondered what had delayed him so long, but I could not have guessed it would be treason! As soon as we are done here, I will turn the army north and bring him to justice. Of this, you have my solemn promise, Liam Cousland."

He releases his grip on my shoulders and smashes his hands together, grinding his armored gloves together, his face contorting with grim fury.

"Th-thank you, my lord."

"You need not thank me," Cailan says, his voice steely. "Treason against a teyrn is treason against the crown. I owe you this duty as your king, and I will see it done. Howe will hang." Again, he smashes his hands together. "Yes, the coward will hang! Nothing can truly set this right, I know that, but I will see Howe's blood spilled for this!"

The ferocity of the king's pledge takes me by surprise. Compared to Duncan's tepid exhortations to higher purpose, it is almost overwhelming to hear such a strident, uncompromising promise of justice.

"Thank you," I repeat. I draw in a breath, then ask: "Do you – do you know, my lord, if my brother, Fergus Cousland, arrived here safely?"

"He did indeed, several days past," Cailan says. A smile returns slowly to his face, though it is a sad one. "He is alive and well, and lifted his glass in my tent just last night. If memory serves, he was to lead a scouting expedition into the Wilds today. His intent was to ascertain the enemy's position, and to harry their flank should the attack come before his return. I believe his plan was to strike out at first light this morning."

My stomach lurches, though I'm not sure if it is from relief or disappointment. Fergus lives, and yet it seems that I come so far, only to find my brother is still out of reach.

The king, again seeming to read my face like the page of a book, furrows his brow. "I am sorry, young ser. Had I known – no, never mind, such regrets are a fool's errand. If I thought there was any hope of your finding him sooner, I would grant you leave to do so. But I do not believe such a thing is possible, even if the Wardens could spare you. The Wilds are a tangle, even if they were not crawling with darkspawn, and Fergus's party will have taken care to cover their tracks."

"I understand, my lord. However, if I might beg one more question of your Majesty?"

Cailan inclines his head. "Anything."

Although I feel I should beg the King to reconsider – to permit me to do exactly what he has so tactfully forbidden – the truth is, I have no such desire. Perhaps this marks me a coward, but at least I'm not a fool: I know the chances of finding a scouting party in any forest, let alone uncharted wilds crawling with darkspawn. I'm not interested in a wild goose chase.

And truthfully, although I am desperate to see my brother, there is some small part of me that fears our meeting. How am I to tell him that his wife and unborn child lie murdered and unavenged, our family estate held by traitors? How am I to look him in the eye and explain why I left Oren, wounded and comatose, with near-strangers? If I'm to be marked a coward, it should be for these failures, and I am loathe to face such a judgment.

Besides, there are other leads I can pursue, if I have the time. Alistair said there would be a contingent of Circle mages with the army, and where there are magi, there will certainly be templars. If there is any avenue through which I might find the truth about Howe's pet wizards, it will be with the Circle and the templars.

And the question I have for King Cailan pertains to Howe, as well.

"I am concerned for my brother," I say. "I fear the treachery that claimed my parents may reach out for him, as well. Do you – do you know with whom he travelled into the Wilds?"

King Cailan nods thoughtfully. "I believe he was to be accompanied by his own men and a few local trackers, and none others. You may, however, find that my royal memory is not always what it should be. As soon as we have parted ways, go to my tents and speak with my captain, Ser Elric Maraigne. If he does not have the answers you seek, he will know where to direct you."

I bow, crossing my forearms as I do so. "Thank you, my lord."

"Would that I could do more." Cailan steps back, so he addresses Korith and Duncan as well now, and clears his throat, signaling a shift in the conversation. "We believe the darkspawn are massing for a concentrated attack. Loghain expects they will strike tomorrow night, at the latest. There is nothing more we can do about Howe, so all I can suggest is that we vent our rage against the darkspawn for the time being."

"So soon?" Duncan asks, and shakes his head. He glances at Korith and says, "We have little time."

The dwarf nods. "Best to start today, then."

"It seems you have your own business to attend to, then," Cailan says, smiling again. He claps Duncan on the shoulder. "I fear I must cut our reunion short, myself. I ought to return to my tent. Loghain awaits, eager to bore me with further discussion of strategy, I am sure."

Duncan bows again. "Thank you, Your Highness. One last matter: your uncle sends his greeting from Redcliffe, and reminds you his forces could be here in less than a week."

Cailan laughs again. "Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory!"

"Perhaps," Duncan allows, smiling faintly. "It has been three weeks since I saw him last, and frankly, I am surprised he has not marched here already, in defiance of your instruction."

"It would be like him, would it not? But I believe he understands why he must remain. If Loghain is even half-right, and Orlais grows hungry, Redcliffe is the south's best defense."

"Indeed it is," Duncan says, "although I still wish your majesty would consider summoning him here. We may yet require reinforcement. The Orlesians will be the least of Ferelden's worries should the darkspawn break through."

"Oh, Duncan! You worry too much! Do you really think I wouldn't have called Eamon if I thought he was needed? We've won three battles against these monsters already, and tomorrow should be no different. Even if we cannot carry the day on the field, Ostagar's defenses alone will be enough to hold them off for days – certainly long enough to summon aid, if it is needed. And again I say, it will not be needed!" He laughs, and it's easy to be swept away by his confidence. "Besides, keeping them in Redcliffe helps satisfy Loghain's paranoia about our neighbors. I swear, the man thinks the Empress a harpy, ready to sweep in and devour our young!"

"Your majesty seems quite sure of our victory," Korith says. He does not bother to hide his skepticism.

If the king is bothered by Korith's manners, he gives no sign. "Overconfident, some would say! Isn't that right, Duncan?"

Duncan nods uneasily. "You have heard me out already, but I am not sure the Blight can be ended quite as quickly as you might wish. Nor quite as easily."

"Duncan, you fret too much. I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, yes, but, alas, we've seen no hint of any Archdemon."

Korith shakes his head. "You actually sound disappointed."

"Truthfully? Yes. I'd hope for a war like in the tales."

"War is nothing like the tales," Korith says. His tone, I think, borders on disrespect. "Not this kind of war, King. Trust us: we've seen what these creatures do."

"Perhaps you are right, Master Korith." The King sounds almost wistful. "And yet…are heroes not measured by the depth of the evil they oppose? A king, riding with the fabled Grey Wardens, against a tainted god: what could be more like a tale? But I suppose this will have to do instead, whatever it is. And now, I really must go, before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, and Andraste guide your blades, dear Wardens!"

…

" **Damn,"** Korith says, when the king and his guard have strode off in the direction from which we've come, toward the bulwark at the eastern edge of the camp. "He really is a fucking idiot, isn't he?"

"Quiet, dwarf," Duncan says, affectionately. "Your oath can only protect you so far."

"Bah." Korith spits. "He'd just laugh if he heard me."

I'm inclined to think Korith is right, actually. On all counts.

Then again, what do I know? Cailan has won victories, after all, while I've not so much as seen a single darkspawn in my entire life. All I have to go on is the education received from Duncan and Alistair, and although I do not doubt them, they themselves admit they do not know for certain that an Archdemon awaits us in the Wilds.

"All the same," Duncan chides, "do _try_ to remember your place. He is the king, after all."

"Yours, perhaps," Korith says. "Not mine. He's right about one thing, though: they've won a few scraps already, and with little enough help from us. I've barely wetted my axe."

"So, then, maybe this really isn't a Blight, after all?" I ask hopefully.

I hate to be in agreement with Arl Howe about anything – didn't he argue this very proposition, to Father and Duncan, mere hours before his treachery revealed itself? – but in the absence of a Blight, Howe's death is that much nearer. I can stand his being correct, if it hastens his end.

"So some believe," Duncan says, "but not I."

"Nor I," Korith agrees. "Victories aside, the bastards grow in number every fucking day. They've got us outnumbered ten to one at least. Besides, Stone help me, I can just fucking _feel_ it, down to my bones."

 _Stone help me._ I've never heard the expression before, but I've had little enough experience with dwarfs.

"As can I," Duncan says, "but we cannot ask the king to ask solely on our feelings."

"And why not? He seems to think the light of Andraste herself shines out our hairy asses. He'd do any fucking thing you asked of him."

"Yet he will not do the one thing I _have_ asked." Duncan sighs. "He will not permit our Orlesian brothers to join us. He believes our presence alone is enough, and looks to us to make up for any deficiency in his numbers. I fear our own numbers are too few, and so we must look to Teyrn Loghain's strategies to make up the difference."

"And Teyrn Loghain doesn't trust us, does he?" I ask. Suddenly, I think I can understand a bit of the weight Duncan carries on his shoulders.

"A pretty fucking pickle, isn't it?" Korith chuckles at his own rhetorical question, then sighs heavily. "Damn, but I don't know what I wouldn't do for a pickle right now. Haven't had a pickle in weeks…"

It's tough to get a read on the dwarf. I really can't tell if he's joking about the pickles. Maybe dwarves like pickles?

"We can do only our best," Duncan says. "The Maker demands no more. To that end, Korith and I should being preparations for the Joining. And Liam, I assume you'll want to find out more about your brother?"

I nod.

"King's tent is this way." Korith beckons that we follow him toward the bridge. "So's the – well, what we need," he says, cutting himself short at a glance from Duncan. To me, he adds: "That captain, Maraigne? You'll know him by sight. He'll the most spangled of the lot, and the least happy about it."

"Spangled?"

"Yep," says the dwarf, somewhat smugly. "Practically a walking fucking flag, he's so bedraped and bedazzled. Real knight, though, and carries himself like it, too."

"So...I'm looking for a knight dressed as a flag?"

I have no idea whether Korith is providing helpful information, or making me the butt of a joke.

The dwarf laughs heartily, throwing back his head as he walks. "That'll be the one!"

We've reached the bridge now, and I pause at the edge.

The eastern side of the camp, through which we have just passed, has been set up on one of two outcroppings of the cliff we've followed since the Highway turned west. The valley runs between the outcroppings, and the bridge links them.

Functionally, the bridge matches the description Duncan gave during his lectures. In person, however, it is far grander than I could have imagined. The valley it crosses is both deeper and wider than I had imagined, and the bridge itself stretches across the entire span, supported only at its center, by a single great column. There, the bridge widens into a platform roughly the shape of a diamond.

One edge of the platform – the point that faces the Wilds – has fallen away. On the other edge stands the statue of a man, his back to the valley. He is wearing armor over a kilt, and holds a spear across his chest. His chin is tilted up, his gaze fixed on some point in the sky above. Actually, I think he may be looking at the tower we passed on the way into camp, though whether this was the sculptor's intent or mere chance, I couldn't guess.

There are other, smaller statues as well, placed at intervals along each edge of the bridge. Except for the damage done by time, these are identical to one another. They depict hooded women, faces and bodies obscured by long robes, hands gripping triangular shields that rise almost to their breasts.

There is more to marvel at, however, than engineering and artistry. Though I've heard many times now that Ostagar is defensible, all the maps and lectures do not do the fortress justice. Standing here, overlooking the entire fortress, it is impossible to mistake the wisdom that the Tevinter displayed when they chose this place as their last bastion.

Even now, nearly a millennia after the Imperium abandoned Ostagar, with only the skeletons of their ancient fortifications left standing, I cannot imagine a more unassailable position.

At the top of the sheer cliffs, walls once rose, lining both the valley and the outcroppings. These walls have fallen away, but their foundations remain, jagged teeth that outline each of the outcroppings. Here and there, the skeletons of old towers and parapets have been filled in with dirt and lumber, creating firing platforms on which ballista and trebuchets have been mounted. Elsewhere, old buildings have been repaired with new roofs, sheltering supplies and ammunition.

Archers are posted at intervals along the edges of the cliff and on the bridge itself. They stand near bonfires and buckets of oil with, which to light their arrows, and trade words with groups of sentries pacing by. Far below, on the valley's floor, bulk of the army is assembled. Their tents stretch north, away from the Wilds, while trenches, firing platforms, and palisades have been set up in intricate networks between the eastern and western outcroppings at the valley's mouth.

Beyond these fortifications, the forest has been logged and the undergrowth burnt back, leaving an arc of open ground perhaps a quarter mile in depth. This barren stretch is crisscrossed with even more trenches, ones that I'd would wager are filled to bristling with sharpened stake or rivers of tar, waiting to be ignited by flaming arrows. When the darkspawn emerge from the forests, our troops will not only have plenty of warning before battle is joined, they'll have an open killing field between themselves and the monstrous enemy.

As for the army itself, the fortifications buzz with activity. Companies of soldiers are arrayed at various redoubts, while individual runners moving between forward and advanced positions. Further out, in the clearing, scouts and Mabari move gingerly between traps, their heads turned toward the trees. High above, on the western outcropping, at the other side of the bridge, groups of armored knights stand, conferring with one another, while soldiers drill together among the trees. As we walk, two young elves in soot-stained smocks dart past us, carrying half a set of armor between them. Apprentices, perhaps, or more likely servants, running an errand for some blacksmith, who is no doubt doing steady trade among the tents.

And yet, somehow, in the midst of all this bustling activity, I cannot escape a sense of profound loneliness. It's as though Thedas itself has reached its end amid these windswept ruins, and we few thousand souls are standing alone on the brink of whatever void lies beyond. The stones themselves, so old, so worn, and yet still standing, seem to testify by their very existence to the frailty of humankind, and the trees, tall and austere, seem almost disdainful.

It seems odd to me: odd that the place at which my nation's very existence may be decided with blood and steel should be so utterly indifferent to our fate.

Or perhaps Ostagar is not indifferent. Perhaps it is just weary.

Perhaps it has simply seen too much already.

"By my guess, it's just past noon now," Duncan says, when we have reached the far side of the bridge. "The Joining itself will be brief, but much preparation will be required. Korith and I will need to discuss certain matters with the other senior Wardens, but we can afford to waste little time. Liam, you may seek out news of your brother, but return to our camp before dusk. I will be able to tell you and the others more tonight, and you should be able to begin your trials at daybreak tomorrow."

"Where-" I begin, but Korith cuts me off.

"By the kennels," he says. "Just follow the smell of dog shit until you can't stand it, and walk past the barking to the big bonfire, and you're there."

I nod, but I must look confused, because Korith laughs.

"Or just ask anyone. Every bootlicker here knows where we're camped. Half of them will come running to our tent the second they see a darkspawn up close."

"If you are unable to find news of your brother," Duncan says, "you should feel free to explore the camp, or make any other use of your time you deem worthy. All I ask is that you do not leave for the time being, nor intrude on my meeting with the senior Wardens. We will be in the larger tent, but you may, of course, rest in one of the other tents. I expect you will find Daveth and Jory there as well, and your hound, too."

"Yes, ser," I say, because I'm not sure what else is appropriate.

Duncan turns away, walking up a path to the left.

Korith pauses, pointing almost directly ahead. "King's tents are up there," he says. "They're the big, fancy ones. You'll recognize 'em by the flag, I reckon, but failing that, the herd of fat yes-men should be a clue."

"Thank you."

"Shit, kid. Don't thank me. Just get on, and good luck."

Then the dwarf turns, and hurries after Duncan.

I'm still not sure if he's being helpful, or having me on.

…

 **Ser Elric Maraigne is exactly as Korith described him:** clad in shining silver and draped with a flowing blue cape, carrying an ornate helmet under one arm and wearing an engraved longsword across his broad shoulders, yet frowning worriedly as he leans over table strewn with maps and figures. His face speaks to concerns not usually borne by men who wear such fine armor, his brow wrinkled with concentration. He's deep in conversation with a dozen other nobles and officer. More men still stand nearby, clustered outside the royal tents, watching with interest.

Nonetheless, he is polite and attentive, exchanging pleasantries in spite of my bedraggled appearance. He listens carefully as I introduce myself and explain that I'm with the Wardens, and have come to bother him at the king's recommendation. I am careful to avoid any mention of Arl Howe or the attack at Highever.

"Yes, your brother left just after dawn," Ser Maraigne says once I have finished. "He took with him twenty of your men, all from Highever, and four local men, all of them trackers familiar with this stretch of the Wilds. I believe he chose the men personally."

This comes as no small relief. The trackers, I suppose, could be in Howe's employ, but it seems unlikely. His reach may be long, but I doubt it extends to huntsmen eking out a living on the edge of the Korcari. Still, there is a chance Howe may have placed assassins within the army, men who might have followed him, or even entered the Wilds in advance to set an ambush.

I'm still trying to figure out how to discretely inquire about this possibility when Ser Maraigne interrupts with a question of his own.

"You mentioned you had seen the king," he says. "Would you happen to know where he going, when he took leave of you?"

"Uh, toward the east side of the camp. Though he said he was coming back here, to meet with Teyrn Loghain?"

"Damn," Ser Maraigne mutters, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "We await his decision on more than a few matters. He was with some of your fellow Wardens, I imagine?"

"Ah, no, I don't think he was."

"Huh. Well, that's a surprise. He rides with your lot wherever they go." He sighs and swipes a hand across his forehead. When he looks up, his eyes are weary. "Tell me, Warden Cousland: do you think we can end this Blight with one single, titanic battle? This is the subject of much… _discussion_ , between His Majesty and our dear Teyrn, and amongst the rest of us." He waves vaguely, and I can't tell if he means those gathered around the maps, or the camp in general.

"I – I'm not fully a Warden yet," I say, evasively.

I almost mention the Joining, but remember that Duncan said it was secret, so instead I explain that I've not yet faced a darkspawn.

"Ah." Ser Maraigne nods. "Then perhaps I've said too much. "It is sufficient, then, to say that, though I am myself inspired by the king's dedication, and by his passion, and though I am confident in our position and in our men… I do find myself troubled, nonetheless. Your fellow Wardens have proved quite – well, quite _stoic_ on the subject, and I had hoped you might be more willing to offer your expert opinion."

"I apologize, but I have no expertise to offer."

"Not yet, at any rate," he says, smiling. "And I hope you will not mistake my misgivings for _doubts_. I have the utmost confidence in your Order, and in our men, and in King Cailan himself."

"I quite understand." I smile blandly, a technique I learned in my father's courts, while I try to determine the most diplomatic response. "You are not the first from whom I've heard such concern today, ser, and in the face of this threat, I am sure you will not be the last."

Unexpectedly, this provokes chuckles from the others present.

"Probably the most _politely_ you've heard those doubts put, though," interjects a thin, bearded officer. He is watching me hawkishly, likely trying to gauge my reaction.

" _Reckless_ , the Teyrn called him," chimes in one of the nobles, slurring his words. He is smirking rather vapidly, and speaks in a stage whisper. The flask of wine in his hand may explain his demeanor, as well as the flushed cheeks and droopy eyes. "What a thing to say! And the king _laughed_ at it, I heard!"

"Aye, but it's up to his Majesty to decide what he finds humorous and what he does not," the thin officer replies. "No harm if the king takes no offense, eh, Warden?"

And yet, by the man's tone, it would seem he believes offense should have been taken.

Such candor from the king's retinue is unexpected – even alarming. Hearing Duncan voice concerns about King Cailan's judgment in private is one thing. This is another matter entirely.

Though no one has yet expressed any personal doubt in Cailan, the mere fact that subordinates are willing to be so frank about his conflict with Teyrn Loghain – especially to me, a complete outsider – is noteworthy.

If it were not for Ser Maraigne, who seems utterly genuine, I might suspect I am being tested. Indeed, the thin officer is not the only person present watching me closely. I would do well to recall that Arl Howe's influence may extend to anyone present.

"I confess, sers, I know very little of any of this." It is as safe a response as I can imagine, and although it does not actually answer the officer's question, it does have the benefit of being entirely true. I hope it is also a clear refusal to engage in this conversation.

Unfortunately, my reply is greeted by further laughter from those present, and even Ser Maraigne cracks a smile.

"You are wiser than your years," he says, "so surely, you must know how much heed to pay all this gossip. Though they may disagree, the King and the Teyrn have great respect for one another. When the time comes to act, they will act as one."

Behind him, two of the knights roll their eyes at one another. I pretend not to notice.

"It's a shame he can't seem to _act as one_ with the teyrn's daughter, as well," the drunken noble adds, winking to highlight his clever double entendre, then giggling besides.

This, at last, provokes a response from those gathered about the table. Several of the knights glare, and another noble – considerably more sober – clears his throat warningly. Ser Maraigne's head snaps around, and for the first time I see a flash of danger in his eyes.

"Mind your tongue, fool."

Though deep into his drink, the noble retains enough sense to look down at his feet, giving at least the appearance of being ashamed.

I'm not sure what exactly he meant by the sleight. Marital problems between the king and queen? Infidelity? Infertility?

I suppose it doesn't really matter. Though I've missed a great deal of its subtext, this little exchange has been quite illuminating. In many courts, the words I've just heard would be enough to separate men from their heads. Here, even among King Cailan's most loyal lieutenants, the response is stern glances and a harsh word.

"We would all do well to mind our tongues." Ser Maraigne enunciates each word slowly and precisely, speaking to all assembled now. "And we would also do well to recall the manner in which men should speak of their king. And of his queen."

Only when he has finished speaking does he turn away from the noble, who now appears to be making plans to be elsewhere. Then he turns back to me and shakes his head, a subtle apology for the behavior I've witnessed.

"And you, Warden Cousland, was there anything else I could help you with? You were asking after your brother, I believe, before I so rudely diverted our conversation?

"Only... Might I ask, is his the only scouting party?"

This question gives Ser Maraigne a moment of pause, as I expected it might. Asking nosy questions about an army's strategy, after all, is probably an excellent means to arouse suspicion – especially since I have no proof that I am, in fact, a Grey Warden, or even a Cousland. Then again, I am clearly human, and since our enemy is anything but, I am counting on this to weigh in my favor.

As I hoped, Ser Maraigne hesitates only briefly before shaking his head.

"We've sent only one party out at a time. The king has forbidden anyone else from entering the Wilds without his express permission."

I nod, and forge ahead. "I am concerned for my brother," I confide. "There are... _political_ issues at play within my father's teyrnir. Local grievances, nothing more, but still...he is my brother."

Several of the nobles and officers nearby are listening in, but at this point, I can't think of anything I lose by tipping my cards a bit. If anyone here is in on Howe's scheme, they already know more than I could give away; for the rest, there is no harm in throwing them a few morsels of gossip.

Ser Maraigne, for his part, remains attentive, but shows no interest in my vagaries.

"Is there any way to know which men, specifically, accompanied him, or when he may be back?" I ask.

"You could inquire with the officers from Highever. They're camped in the valley below, however, and it is a long walk down. The guard post at the western rampart is nearer, and they keep a log of comings and goings. The duty officer there may know more." He points past the tents. "Go up that rise, through the encampment. When you find the palisade wall, turn right and continue until you've passed the infirmary. The post is beside the only gate."

"And they may know when he will be back?"

"That, I doubt. When he spoke to me, he planned to remain in the Wilds until the battle is joined, which we expect will occur within the next few days. He planned to return only if he discovered something urgent and could not sent a bird or a runner, or if his party ran out of rations."

"Thank you," I say, my heart sinking. "In that case, would – would you be so kind as to keep a letter for my brother? I should like to write him a letter, in case – well, in case the battle goes poorly for me."

Several of the lines on Ser Maraigne's face soften. "Of course. Bring it by once you've penned it, and I'll hold it until we meet after the battle. Then you can give it to him yourself."

"Thank you, ser."

"Think nothing of it. May the Maker guide your steps, today and in the days to come," he says – a polite, and not unwelcome, dismissal from a conversation that has revealed far more than I anticipated.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: On the Rebel King**

 _When speaking of Maric Theirin, it is difficult to separate the man from the myth. The last survivor of the bloodline of King Calenhad the Great, the Silver Knight, Maric drove the Orlesian forces from Ferelden's borders, reclaimed the throne, and freed our people from foreign tyranny._

 _All this is true, and no less so if it seems somewhat larger than life._

 _He was born in hiding near Cathal's Crossing, to the rebel queen, Moira Theirin, herself also the last of Calenhad's line until the birth of her only son. Maric grew up in the rebel camps, an outlaw in his own country. When the rebel queen died, Maric inherited her band of homeless nobles, malcontents, and displaced freeholders._

 _Many songs and many folktales, and more than a few rumors, tell varying accounts of his role in the rebellion. On a few points, all these agree: not long after his mother's death, King Maric became friends with an outlaw, Loghain Mac Tair, and the two built an army, which weathered several years of renewed warfare._

 _After the pivotal Battle of the River Dane, Maric took the throne. He married Rowan Guerrin, daughter of Arl Rendorn Guerrin of Redcliffe, who had been one of the king's closest allies, and began the long, slow process of rebuilding everything Orlais had demolished during seventy years of occupation._

 _To Loghain, Maric granted the Teyrnir of Gwaren as acknowledgment of the crucial role his friend had played in the rebellion. Even the most casual observer of Ferelden politics is aware that the King and the Teyrn ruled almost as one, with Loghain spending as much time in Denerim as in Gwaren during the early years of Ferelden independence._

 _Maric's only son and heir, Cailan, was born in 9:5 Dragon to Queen Rowan, who died when the lad was only three._

 _Most historians agree that Cailan was raised as much by Teyrn Loghain as by Maric himself. Cailan spent many of his childhood summers receiving tutelage in the arts of war from Loghain himself. It is there that Cailan met Loghain's daughter, Anora, the young prince's future wife._

 _Until his untimely disappearance in 9:25 Dragon, King Maric concerned himself primarily with rebuilding Ferelden's infrastructure. The only notable controversy of his rain was the abrupt decision to invite the Grey Wardens to return to Ferelden, after an exile of more than two hundred years. What prompted this decision, which was hotly debated at the time, is a question that has never been satisfactorily answered._

 _As for Maric's disappearance, very little is known. He departed by ship from Denerim, bound for Wycome, and neither he, nor the ship, nor any of its crew, were ever seen again. Most presume he was lost at sea, though, of course, many other stories persist._

Excerpted from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_

by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar


	6. Black as Sin

**CHAPTER FIVE:** _Blood Black as Sin_

 **With Fergus long gone,** there is no reason to rush to the guard post. And since dusk is still many hours away, I need not hurry back to Duncan, either. This Joining, whatever it is, looms large in my thoughts, as does the impending battle. Both make me uneasy. But for now, I have time to pursue any leads I can find on Howe and his mages, and I intend to make the most of that time.

I slow my pace to an easy stroll as soon as I'm out of sight of the king's tents, and turn my attention to my surroundings.

Father's last request of me – that I join the Wardens, that I do my part to save our people from this supposed Blight – was spoken in the same breath as his admonition to bring Howe to justice.

His words, and so many others, echo in my mind. The words of the dead. I hear them whenever there is quiet, like a litany seared into my conscience.

 _Go – and live,_ Mother told me.

 _Survive,_ Aeron insisted.

But those instructions, even given from the depths of love, are not enough.

 _The only victory is vengeance,_ Father said, at the gates.

Iona, too, spoke of vengeance, when she came to me last night. _You will avenge my blood, vhenan. This, the Dread Wolf has promised me._

I owe their memories every effort I can muster.

To that end, I need to survive the battle ahead. I also need to learn what influence Howe has in the camp, and whether his reach extends to the mages. These are the first steps, I think. How I'll accomplish these goals, however, I have no idea.

Though I'm not sure there's anything more to be learned about Fergus' scouting expedition, I've already decided to start at the guard post. If nothing else, the walk may clear my head, and I should learn something more of the camp's geography. Perhaps I'll get a sense for its, mood, as well – a better sense of the men and women who will bear the brunt of the fighting.

Or maybe I'm just full of shit, deluding myself so I can feel as though I'm doing something – _anything_ – to bring me closer to my goal.

But it's probably best not to think like that.

As I walk, I try to keep my eyes up and my ears open.

It's obvious that most of the nobility have camped as close as possible to the king. The tents here are large and colorful, with the flags of noble houses fluttering overhead. Guards in expensive armor pace back and forth, or lean against trees and ruins, conversing in hushed tones. Of the nobles themselves, I see no sign. Perhaps those not clustered around Ser Maraigne are off pacing about on the eastern side of camp, hoping to be seen by the king.

Then again, perhaps most are with their men, in the valley. I cannot imagine many of these tents are occupied by arls or banns. Instead, the best warriors and most able commanders will have been from among sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, or brothers and sisters. Few lords or ladies will wish to risk their own lives, or those of their immediate heirs, and thus will have sent others representatives to stand with the king.

Father, for example, could have sent Fergus alone. Though he was a Teyrn, he was never given a position in King Cailan's court, not like Teyrn Loghain. No one would have blamed him for remaining behind. But Father was not like most of the nobility, and I can no sooner imagine him remaining in Highever than sprouting wings.

Beyond the nobles' tents, I pass through a swath of merchants' stalls. Men and women from all over Ferelden are hawking food, wine, weapons, and more. A shady vendor calls out to me as I pass, offering "Chantry-certified strength potions." A few paces later, a buxom woman calls me "soldier boy" and asks if I'm lonely. She suggests she might be able to find me a companion, if I'm interested. I ignore both offers, and none of the other sellers pay me any attention.

It's an odd sensation. In Highever, I could never go to the merchant district without attracting a parade of tailors, booksellers, and trinketeers, all trying to tempt me with their wares. Even in other cities, where I wasn't recognized on sight, my clothes and coin purse announced me as a potential customer, or patron, or mark.

Now, wearing a traveling cloak and carrying weapons, caked in the accumulated dirt and grime of so many days spent on the road, covered in bruises and welts, I find I am nearly invisible. My armor and my family sword are well-made, but not so ornate as to brand me as a knight. To most, I imagine, I appear a professional soldier, nothing more.

The joke's on them, I suppose, as I am neither a soldier, nor professional.

Soon, the merchant's tents give way, and I find myself walking through a sea of simple brown tents. They are nothing more than canvas tarps tied down over triangular wooden frames, barely tall enough for a man to stand in their center. They might sleep six soldiers apiece, and it'd be a cozy fit even then.

The tents were pitched in neat rows and columns, eight deep and eight across, forming a patchwork not unlike city blocks. Steel braziers stand at even intervals, and though it is still early in the afternoon, most are already full of burning logs. Men and women cluster around the flames, some warming their hands, others roasting meat or drying out sodden clothes.

Judging by the banners, these soldiers belong to Ferelden's standing army, in the pay and service of the king himself. If I had to guess, only a portion of the king's army is here on the outcropping. The rest will be below in the valley, along with the forces loyal to respective noble houses. Some units may number only a few dozen, while Teyrn Loghain's contingent, from Gwaren, will outnumber even Highever's force, and may rival the king's standing army in numbers. Gwaren has always been renowned for its martial prowess, as has Loghain himself.

In this company, my disheveled state helps me blend in. There is a genuine affection among these soldiers, as they trade jokes or pass hunks of bread and pitchers of ale back and forth. Some of the men call out to me, offering greetings or asking for news. I am invited to share in food and drink by some, and asked if I have any of my own to share by others. One young woman in light armor, who carries a grouse on shoulder and a bow on the other, catches my eye and blesses me with a come-hither smile.

I nod politely to all who greet me, including the girl with the grouse, and answer most questions with a shrug and a smile. Later, it may be worthwhile to return. Around these fires, I might learn things even Ser Maraigne's indiscreet companions would divulge, if they knew them in the first place. Perhaps my newfound anonymity will be a boon in more ways than one.

So far, I've seen no sign of the Circle's encampment. I had assumed it would be here, not far from the king's tents. Then again, many commoners fear mages, even those bound to the Circle's rule, so perhaps they have been kept separate from the army to avoid confrontation. If so, I'll have to seek them out later, once I've been to the guard post.

The palisade wall comes into view, a crude construction of tall, pointed stakes winding between crumbled ruins and overgrown trees. There's no sign of any gate, at least not yet.

Nearby, someone is yelling at the top of their lungs in a practiced, authoritative voice. I follow the noise to a large, open field between the formations of tents. In the middle of the field, a sergeant is pacing back and forth before a company of fresh-faced soldiers, most of them my age or younger. Their armor is cheap stuff, but clean and undamaged. Their swords hang stiffly from belts, and their shields are crude, wooden affairs that may be enough to stop an arrow or turn away a jab, but look far too weak to withstand a solid blow from an axe or greatsword. These are fresh troops, no doubt recently recruited from the streets of some northern city.

One stands apart from the rest, behind the sergeant. His face is pale, and there is blood dripping from cuts on his forehead and chin. He appears to have a newly broken nose.

"Now listen to me," the sergeant bellows. "You see what I think of this fucking nonsense talk, don't you? Anyone else want to end up like Private Hubbard, here?"

He gestures back at the unfortunate Hubbard, who is swaying in place, apparently doing his best just to stay upright. In unison, the recruits chant a response: "Ser, no, ser!"

"Damn fucking right you don't. You are soldiers, not nattering housewives spreading idle gossip! You are soldiers, not children! Talk of darkspawn dragging people underground to eat them, or enslave them, or fuck 'em in the ass, or turn them into fucking pigeons - whatever the fuck you may have heard – it is horseshit, plain and simple, and it will stop _immediately!"_

He wheels on Hubbard suddenly, and the private flinches. He almost takes a step back, in fact, but the sergeant grabs him by the front of his armor and pulls him close. Whatever is said next, I can't hear, but Hubbard nods vigorously before being tossed back toward the rest of the company.

"Fall in," the sergeant snaps contemptuously.

Hubbard stumbles, catching himself on his hands, and scrambles back to his place in the formation.

"Now you lot listen to me! Whatever you were before, you are soldiers of Ferelden now, and you will be treated as such. Any fucking coward or teat-coddled simpleton who doesn't understand this _will_ receive a beating that'll make what happened to Private Hubbard look like a lover's lark. And not just because these _lies_ irritate me – and you know how I feel about lies, recruits! - but because these fucking _rumors_ will be the death of you little shits if you let them. They get in your heads, and suddenly you start to believe them, and then you start to _fear_ them. And what does fear get you?"

"Ser, dead, ser!" shouts the chorus.

"Breaking in the new ones," Daveth mutters in my ear, and I jump half a foot. I didn't hear him coming up beside me, and his words came from so close that I can feel his breath on my neck.

"Sweet Andraste," I gasp, once I've settled back onto the ground. "You – You scared me."

"Oh?" He chuckles. "Didn't mean to. You was watchin' the poor sod pretty close. Must've missed me coming up."

"Must have."

"That's goddamned right!" the sergeant is yelling. "Dead! Fucking dead! You start to fear the enemy, and I might as well just kill you right here and now for all the use you'll be to anyone on a battlefield!"

"Shit like this," Daveth mutters, "makes me glad I never signed up for soldiering. Don't have the disposition."

I'm inclined to agree with him. I'm not sure what good all the cursing and screaming does; it's certainly not the way I was ever taught a new skill. I can't say I'd respond well, in the recruits' shoes.

"You are soldiers!" the sergeant continues, back to pacing now. "More than that! Soldiers in the _Ferelden Army!_ You fight for your nation, and for your king! You remember that, and you'll find that these fucking darkspawn go down as easy as any man!"

The sergeant pauses, continuing his strides until he reaches the end of the formation. He stops there, executing an abrupt about-face.

"What are you?" he bellows, louder than anything else he's shouted.

"Warriors!" they scream back.

"What do you do?"

"Kill!"

This has been rehearsed, obviously. Even so, they certainly seem to mean what they're screaming.

"And who gets to kill you?"

"Ser, no one but you, ser!"

"You're fucking right, and I do _not_ give you permission to fucking die! You hear me?"

"Ser, yes, ser!"

"It's a bleedin' cult, this is." Daveth sounds amused.

For my part, I'm already rethinking my earlier judgment. Even Hubbard's face is flushed now, as he bellows responses back at the sergeant with all the air in his lungs. If the good sergeant can work these troops up into a lather of bloodlust with just a few obscenities, who am I to question his methods?

"Now," the sergeant continues, more conversationally. "That's enough about these fucking rumors, isn't it? You're here for a lesson, so listen up!" He turns away again and calls out to a corporal who's standing on the far side of the clearing. "Bring it over!"

I'm considering moving on, heading toward the guard post, until I see that the corporal is wearing thick gloves, inlaid with iron, that stretch up past his elbows. He's dragging something into the center of the clearing, something in a burlap sack. It's large enough to be a large dog or a small man. The sack is stained with something dark, something that could be rancid oil, or tar, or old blood.

The recruits watch apprehensively. They almost seem to be holding their breath.

"What the bloody hell?" Daveth asks quietly.

"Go ahead, corporal," the sergeant directs.

Obediently, the man with the gloves draws a curved knife and cuts the sack lengthwise. Then he rolls the body inside out onto the ground, and the recruits gasp. Some mutter curses, others wards against evil. Beside me, Daveth swears as well.

Though I've never seen one, I know the creature that spills from the sack cannot be anything but a darkspawn. Even in death, its appearance is monstrous. Though somewhere between a man and a dwarf in height, it is broader than the strongest of either species, with a powerful chest and impossibly thick arms that stretch too far, almost to its ankles. Leathery skin, tan in color, is stretched across a nightmarish face. The features are skeletal around the sunken eyes, but almost canine across the jaw, which juts forward in a bony muzzle that is split by a leering, lipless red mouth. Where there ought to be a nose, there are only snakelike slits.

A helmet, crudely fashioned from some dark-colored metal, fits tightly on the head. There are guards over the nose and jaw line, and a crest runs across the helmet's top, rising to a long spike over the forehead, almost like a horn. Gore is spattered on the helmet, and across the creature's torso, which is left bare by armor that covers only its shoulders and forearms. An open wound on its stomach oozes black blood, and one of its legs, small in comparison to the rest of its frame, is bent at an unnatural angle.

It stinks. By the Maker, it stinks. Like rancid meat and old sweat, but also tangy like rust, and sulfurous, like spoiled eggs.

"Look carefully, recruits," the sergeant says, taking on a teacher's tone now. "This wretched thing is a darkspawn. A real one, not some boogeyman from a wives' tale. These short, fat fuckers are called _genlocks_. There's others, built more like a man, called hurlocks, and our scouts say there are larger ones, too. They're all monsters, all of them, and they're strong and fast, and cunning too, but they _can_ be killed, easy as any man. Stick 'em with a sword, or fill 'em with arrows, or run 'em through on a pike, or slit their throat, and they go down just fine."

The sergeant steps up to the beast's corpse and kicks its hip, turning it over so it's face down. Black blood stains the dirt where it previously rested.

"This – not the genlock itself – _this_ is what you have to fear," the sergeant says, pointing at the blood. "It's black as sin, and twice as poisonous. Don't even touch it if you can help it. So wear real armor, none of the fancy shit you see with bare arms, or swirly bits, or tits out on display. You get too much of that blood in a cut, or in your mouth, and you may as well jump yourself right into a dragon's den. You get tainted by that blood, you're fucking _dead_ , is what I'm telling you. No _ifs_ about it, no _buts_ , just _dead_. We've lost good men already, and too many dogs. And it's a long and painful way to die, and I don't want to see any of you little shits go out that way. Now, in a moment, you lot can gather round and take a look – but for Andraste's sake, don't fucking touch the carcass. We'll burn it after, so it doesn't infect anything."

The sergeant calls his troops to attention, then barks the command to fall out. The formation dissolves, but none of the soldiers move forward. They mull about together instead, shifting in place, faces pale. I can't say I blame them.

As the sergeant begins to curse again, I turn to Daveth and gesture away from the clearing. He nods, and we fall into stride together, continuing past another row of tents and up toward the palisade.

"How'd you find me?" I ask.

Daveth stares at me blankly for a moment, as though he didn't quite hear. Then he nods. "Wasn't looking. Just poking about."

Since Daveth seems to be following me, I decide I'd better let him know my plans – if they can even be called that. Whatever he's up to, I doubt he'll find much entertainment at the guard post, nor among the Circle mages, and I'd hate to lead him on pointless errands. He is, after all, the closest thing I have to a friend.

Somewhat to my surprise, Daveth immediately offers his help. "I'm good at reading people," he says. "Might catch something you'd miss. Meaning no offense, of course, and if you don't mind having me."

"Not at all," I say. "Thanks."

He goes silent for a minute, just walking alongside. I can tell he's thinking.

The silence doesn't bother me. I've never felt that every moment needs to be full of conversation. All the same, I'm a bit worried about Daveth, who's been an unrestrained chatterbox for must of the journey.

I glance at him as we walk, meaning to gauge his mood. He notices, and smiles reassuringly, but the smile is shaky and thin.

"So, ugly blighters, eh?" he says, trying to carry the observation off as a jest.

All I do is nod.

"On the upside, though, least there'll no question about it." Although we're walking at an easy pace, Daveth sounds almost winded. "I've never killed nobody before, you know? Been in scraps, of course, but never – never took things that far. Been wondering: _could_ I, you know?"

Again, I just nod.

I had wondered the same thing, before Highever.

"But – well, there's no bloody doubt, is there? You see something like that, there ain't a question in the world about it. Nothing for it but chop, chop, chop, until one of you quits moving. Like you find a big spider right where you'll be lying down, you got to kill it, you know? Nothing but nature, one's got to go. You know what I mean, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Even by his own standards, the cutpurse is babbling. Seeing the genlock corpse has unsettled him, more than I'd have expected. And why shouldn't it have?

Two days ago, after we passed the Chasind refugees, Duncan said that he could tell, just by looking at the refugees' faces, that they'd encountered darkspawn. To drive home his point, he quoted a line from the Chant of Light: _Men who have looked into the void, and seen that they are powerless before its embrace._

The words were chilling enough at the time. Now, having seen one of the creatures first hand, I can fully appreciate Duncan's choice of scripture.

Everything about the genlock runs contrary to all nature, as though its very existence is an abomination, an insult to creation itself. And it is not just the creature's monstrous form that leaves me unsettled. There is a spiritual element as well, something nagging just below my subconscious. Even though it lay dead, I could _feel_ the creature, deep down in the pit of my stomach, a presence so purely malicious that it defies description. It is raw, and invasive, and pervasive, and in some quiet voice, it whispers that I should accept that I am already doomed.

I know Daveth has picked up on this same feeling. It's why he is still talking, spitting words out as fast as he can, a stream of consciousness that reveals a mind reeling in the wake of what it's seen.

I think the army, as a whole, senses the same thing. It only makes sense. If one single, slain darkspawn can exude such an aura, is it any wonder that a horde of thousands might cast their shadow over all of Ostagar?

"Pox on 'em, the lot of 'em," Daveth is saying. "But it's eyes, mate. You saw 'em, right? Can't stop thinking about its eyes. Just…just empty, you know?"

I do know.

They were impossible _not_ to notice, lidless even in death, gazing out from sunken recesses in the hideous, pale face. And the eyes themselves were paler still, almost the color of the mists that rose from the Korcari when we rode along the cliff's edge. There was no pupil, no color, nothing but glassy void.

But it seems to me there is little purpose in dwelling on this topic. Daveth will only continue to spiral if he doesn't pull himself together. Honestly, the more he talks, the more he sets me on edge, too.

So I say the only thing that comes to mind: "Where's Madra?"

This, apparently, was the right choice: Daveth brightens immediately.

"Oh, right. Should've thought of that earlier! You're worrying, no doubt. Left her by the fire. There's a fire, big old bonfire, outside of the Wardens' tents, and she fell right asleep soon as she laid down by it. Jory said he'd watch her. You, uh – you don't mind me leaving her, do you?"

I smile and shake my head. "She deserves all the rest she can get."

"That she does. That she does. Tell you, mate, that old girl'd follow you to the gates of hell."

"Actually," I admit, "I'm worried about that. You heard the sergeant back there, right? What he said about their blood, if it gets in your mouth? And he said they've lost a lot of dogs that way."

"Oh, shit!" Daveth exclaims. He stops in his tracks, gobsmacked. "Fuck me! I didn't think of that…"

"Me either, until just now. There's got to be some way to prevent it, though, right? Otherwise, why would we be using dogs at all?"

"Fucked if I know. I'd keep her away from the monsters if I was you, though, I'll tell you that much."

"That's what I'm afraid of. If she thinks I'm in danger, she won't listen to me, no matter what I do."

We start to walk again, but Daveth returns to brooding. Whatever good I did by brining Madra up, I've immediately undone with my own worries about darkspawn blood. I curse myself silently. Great job I've done, bringing him back to exactly the subject from which I was trying to divert him.

Then again, maybe that's the solution – just keep pressing on about something else. Anything else.

"So if you weren't looking for me," I say, "how'd you end up in this corner of the camp?"

"Huh? Oh, that. Well, uh…" He begins to smirk, and this time it's genuine, not an act of false bravado. "See, we've been on the trail how long now, since you joined us? And me, a solid week before that, from Denerim on. Long time to go with just men about, you know?"

Really, I should have expected this, but for some reason I'm taken utterly aback.

"You were looking for _women_?"

His smirk widens. "You might say."

I can't stifle a laugh, though it's more incredulous than amused.

"Shouldn't you be checking around the nobles' tents? I'm pretty sure I saw at least one madam."

"Take it back! I never pay for what I can get free!"

Though my heart's not in it, I draw on memories of the barbs Aeron and I used to trade. I cannot forever wear heartbreak and revenge on my sleeve, least of all if there is any chance of keeping Daveth's spirits up.

I try on a grin, and ask: "On principle, or because you don't have the coin?"

Daveth barks a laugh. "Got me there."

"I'll leave it alone, then. You still haven't answered my question, though – how'd you end up in the middle of the army encampment? Seems like an odd place, if you're looking for love."

"You don't know much about soldier women, do you?" He whistles appreciatively. "Nothing like a soldier girl when you want something fierce. Always willing. No strings attached. Just in and out, so to speak."

"Sounds like you should've gotten lucky already, then."

"Got to give a bloke time to work! Just casing the joint for now. Can't go in too quick, you know? Gotta plan."

"Well, you better get your planning done soon. We have until, what, dusk?"

"Plenty of time! Already seen a pretty little thing with a fat grouse over her shoulder. Lovely little piece, her."

I nod. "I saw her, too."

"Oh, then you know! Must've been a cold fish, though. Wouldn't give me the time of day. Her loss, I suppose, but more's the pity…"

I shrug. There's no point telling him she smiled at me. I don't want to damage hispride. More to the point, I don't really want to discuss the fairer sex at all.

Memories of … _whatever_ happened last night are too fresh. Since she visited me, the pain of Iona's loss is not so acute. In its place, however, there has grown a hollow loneliness.

I spent much of the morning's ride trying to untangle some sort of understanding of what occurred. Though I cannot account for any of it rationally, I know in my heart that every moment was real. Every word, every kiss, every touch. Even if my bedroll had not moved – even if Alistair had not seen the Halla – even if the wolf pendant did not still shine – the truth of the memory alone is strong enough to outweigh any doubt. Some part of Iona came to me last night, whether through the Fade or by some other means, and blessed me with a final night together.

Of that, too, I am certain. She will not visit me again. I was granted the gift of closure, but also the ache of a binding farewell.

The best thing I can do now, I think, is try not to think of it at all.

We pass the last of the army tents and find ourselves walking uphill, toward the palisade wall. Between two thick stone ruins, which look like they might once have been the foundations for towers, a wooden gate has been built. A dozen armed soldiers stand within, most armed with pikes, some leaning against the palisade, others clustered around a fire; atop the ruined foundations, archers are seated on uneven stones, their eyes trained outward.

I open my mouth, about to point the guard post out to Daveth, but before I've begun to speak, someone grabs my wrist, hard. For the second time today, I jump nearly out of my skin.

I pivot my shoulder, yanking my arm up and around, but the grip doesn't loosen.

Looking down, I see the pale, pained face of a soldier, stretched out on a cot. He is laying on his back, beneath a thin blanket, but he has twisted around, propping himself up on one elbow. His whole body is shaking from the effort, but still his hold on my wrist does not let up. His skin is the color of ash, and his forehead is covered in sweat. His eyes are wild.

Again, I jerk my arm back, and this time his reaching hand falls away, limp.

"You…" he says, craning his neck to see me better. "You!"

We are at the edge of a field hospital, I realize. The infirmary that Ser Maraigne mentioned. It continues down the hill we are climbing, separated from the tents by a low railing. There are at least a score of cots, all occupied. A handful of Chantry sisters move between them, applying salves and murmuring prayers.

One of the sisters, having seen the commotion, is hustling toward us, smiling apologetically.

"You," the man says again, his eyes finding my face. "You need to convince them! We've got to run!"

"Right, sorry mate," Daveth says, stepping away. He motions to me that we should move along. "You've got the wrong idea. We're just grunts like you. Nobody listens to our lot."

" _You_ don't understand!" the man snaps. I can see yellow spittle flecking the edges of his mouth. "They're coming! The darkspawn! They're _coming_!"

"I am so sorry, sers," the sister says, slightly winded as she reaches the side of the cot. "He is not well. I hope he hasn't hurt you?"

"Oh, no!" Daveth exclaims, suddenly all smiles. He steps closer again. "We meant him no trouble, miss. It's kind of you to ask!"

The sister is rather pretty, I realize. And Daveth, I realize, is rather shameless.

"He has been like this since they found him," she says. "His patrol reported him lost several days past. He was found this morning, at the edge of the forest."

"They're coming!" The soldier is gasping, his chest heaving. "They're coming!"

"So kind of you to care for these men," Daveth tells the sister.

The soldier's eyes remain fixed on my face. He is pleading with me to listen, to spread the word, to run.

"There are Grey Wardens here, friend," I say. "And an army besides. Your part is done."

The soldier wants none of my reassurance. "I saw them, you fool! We're going to die – they'll kill us all! They'll – they'll…"

His voice trails off and his eyes roll away, but he's still breathing hard. The spittle is running down his cheek now, pooling on the cot.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask, looking up at the sister.

Daveth has just complimented her eyes. She seems relieved to turn away and address me.

"Aside from his wounds, we are not certain, ser. We do not believe his blood to have been tainted, and his wounds are not grievous. We believe he is just… terrified."

At this, the soldier pushes himself up and swings his legs off of the cot, as though he intends to stand. He grabs at me again, then nearly falls over. The sister startles, hopping backward, and Daveth reaches out a protective arm to shield her. She pushes it away and immediately moves back to her patient's side, having already recovered from her fright.

I drop to my knees, so we are face to face, the soldier and I.

"Peace, friend," I tell him, as calmly as I can.

"You… you can feel it, can't you?" he asks. He is calmer now, his voice more even, but his eyes are still flickering with panic. "They taint the land, turn it black and sick. You can feel it inside! They'll come out of the forest and spread. Like caterpillars covering a tree, they'll swallow us whole!"

As he speaks, I think I feel the pendant around my neck quiver. The place where it hangs, just below the hollow of my neck, feels undeniably cold – just as it did when I first retrieved it from the roses, and Iona's voice whispered for the last time.

Taken together with the soldier's words, but the effect is unsettling. I'm left speechless.

If Fen'Harel's pendant possesses some magical property as a result of whatever occurred last night, then its stirring must mean _something_ – and I do not want to find meaning of any kind in this soldier's raving.

The sistergrips his shoulders, gently but firmly, and pushes him back onto the cot again. From a satchel at the small of her back, she removes a damp cloth that smells of vinegar. She places it on his forehead, then swipes it down across his nose and mouth.

Instantly, the soldier relaxes. His eyes close, and he sighs, a long, slow exhale as his body goes slack.

"That's quite enough out of you," she says, though not unkindly. "Hopefully this will calm your nerves, good man."

When the soldier's breathing has grown slow and even, she straightens, tucking the cloth away.

She is not much older than I am, I realize. Her face is smooth and unworn, though streaked with dirt and mud, and her eyes are kind, though tired beyond her years. She wears the familiar tan robes and red cloak of the Chantry, but the golden sunburst on her chest is streaked with blood. Though I cannot count myself among the faithful, I cannot help but think that, if Andraste walked today, she might look something like this nurse.

"Thank you for your kindness," she tells me.

"It's nothing," I say. Then, on an impulse, I ask, "Perhaps you could help me with a small question, sister?"

"Of course."

"I am hoping to speak with one of the templars," I say. "Do you know, by chance, where the Circle have made their encampment?"

"Of course. One of their healers has just departed, in fact. Their tents are not far from ours – mine and my fellow brothers and sisters. Go south, keeping the valley on your left, almost to the edge of the cliff. They are camped beyond the king's tents and the Wardens, but if you find yourself among the cages in which they keep deserters, you have gone too far."

"Thank you."

"There are only a few mages, but at least two score templars to keep watch. There are some of those silent follows, as well. The Tranquil." She smiles conspiratorially, before continuing in a lower voice. "They give me shivers when they talk, all cold and quiet, but they are most helpful, and they seem compassionate in their own way."

I have no idea what she's talking about, so I just not politely.

"I hope you find what you are looking for. May the Maker bless your steps, good ser."

"And yours, sister," I reply.

I truly hope blessings do find her, even if I do not believe they come from any Maker.

Given all I've seen in the last half hour, I fear for her. If the beasts break our line, when battle finally comes, this sister, and all her fellows, will be slaughtered along with their charges. It seems a cruel reward for such selfless kindness.

And she will not be the only innocent to pay with her life. There are more than soldiers in this camp – there are merchants, and whores, and craftsmen, and nobles, and I've already seen that more than a few have brought their families. There are children here, I remember, and the thought turns my stomach.

Though I have not felt such an urge in years, I find now that I wish I could pray.

…

…

…

 _Many are those who wander in sin,_

 _Despairing that they are lost forever._

 _But the one who repents, who has faith,_

 _Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

 _And boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak,_

 _But takes delight in the Maker's law and creations:_

 _She shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction._

 _The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next._

 _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._

 _As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light._

 _The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death,_

 _For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

A Psalm of Redemption

From the Canticle of Transfigurations, Chapter Ten


	7. A Rune of Fortune

**CHAPTER SIX**

 _A Rune of Fortune_

 **The moment I identify myself as a Warden,** the duty sergeant breaks into an enormous, toothless smile. He wants to shake my hand, and bows when he does so. Then he straightens and begins to thank me profusely for my service. What he imagines that to be, I don't know. He doesn't even ask to see proof of my status – which I have rather shamefully overstated, correctly hoping it will command his assistance. He doesn't ask why I'm here. He just wants to help.

Hearing the sergeant's effusive greetings, other soldiers at the guard gather. Up on the ruined wall, some of the archers turn to watch, too. My assumption is that our audience will look on with amusement – I expect knowing whispers, stifled laughs, maybe even a few eye rolls for their overenthusiastic sergeant. Instead, I find the men and women are nodding along with every word he says. Looking around, I see dirty faces staring back at me, exhaustion and fear mirrored in their eyes. But there's hope, too, and relief, and something uncomfortably close to adulation.

 _They think we're going to save them_ , I realize, and I can tell Daveth recognizes it too – he's shifting from one foot to the other, head down, edging away slowly.

"Sergeant, you are too kind," say, falling back on diplomacy. "We only do our duty, as you good men and women do yours."

For me, a noble, this is a mere pleasantry, a polite dismissal if it is anything. But the soldiers nod as though I have quoted Holy Scripture.

Only a few days ago, Duncan told us that the Grey Wardens are not always welcomed throughout Ferelden, nor looked upon kindly by all its citizens. He would know best, I suppose. Here, however, among these soldiers, it would seem we are heroes.

Frankly, I'd prefer animosity.

"I'm here to learn about a scouting party that left in the last few days," I tell the sergeant. "I've heard you're the man to speak to about comings and goings from the camp?"

The sergeant's smile grows wider, and he bobs his head up and down. He beckons me toward a crude shelter, talking as he goes. It's nothing more than a roof wedged between the palisade wall and the crumbling tower, leaving two sides open to the elements – enough to keep out the rain, but not the cold.

And it is cold, I realize – though it cannot be much past two in the afternoon, the air is already growing chill. Maybe that's why the soldiers are all drifting back toward the fire. Daveth is there already, having slipped away without my noticing. He's warming his hands, making small talk.

Inside the shelter, the sergeant shows me the log book. It is supposed to list all comings and goings, he says, but then adds that it may not be exact. Not all of the shifts keep good records. He thinks this is because some of the other sergeants don't know how to read or write.

"Lucky you came by just now," he says, proudly. "I know my letters just fine. Now…right here, it is." One thick finger taps a notation in the log. "Party from Highever left this morning. No others out since. No one out at all, actually. I can vouch for that, too, ser. Been here since sun up."

"Thank you, sergeant. Does it show who went out before the Highever patrol?"

"Aye, it does, but I could tell you just as easy. There's quite a few comings and goings through the gate, but none to the Wilds. Just patrols around the palisade, or in the woods close by. Them Highever boys, they're the first to go down _there_ – down to the Wilds, I mean – since we lost a whole party out there, maybe three or four days back? Them that we lost, they were to be gone just for one night, but they've not been seen since. The lads have been taking bets on who got them first, the darkspawn or the witches."

"The witches?"

"Aye. Witches of the Wilds. You've not heard of them?"

"You mean Flemeth? I've listened to a few tales about her."

"Oh, aye, her for certain, and others, too, though I don't know their names. The hunters His Majesty hired up – locals all of them – they're all beside themselves, saying we're too close to the forest. Spend any time around them, you'll get an earful. Get the feeling they blame the witches for everything. But you said you heard of Flemeth?"

I nod.

Flemeth is the witch that bards have intertwined with my family's history, allegedly the wife and killer of Bann Connobar Elstan. This, I do not share.

"Right, well, then, you're from up north, aren't you my lord?"

I nod again.

"Well, me too, me too. So, these local legends, they're a bit different than what you've heard, if you've heard the same tales as I."

"Hmm," I say, paying only half attention.

Looking over the sergeant's shoulder, I spot Daveth. He's moved away from the fire, and is chatting up a brunette. She wears leather armor over a checkered kilt and a red smock, and carries a broadsword strapped to her back. She's pretty, but she also looks like she could kill you with one hand.

Daveth, however, appears not the least bit intimidated. He says something that makes her laugh, though I can't tell if she's laughing at the joke or laughing athim.

In some strange way, I almost admire the single-mindedness with which Daveth pursues female companionship. Or, more to the point, I admire his ability to shake off whatever troubles him. Though the sight of the dead genlock rocked him to the core, he already seems to have forgotten. Or maybe he's pushed it away. Maybe that's the same thing?

"So," the sergeant is saying, "Flemeth unites all them Chasind barbarians, and they invade the Hinterlands, even get as far as the Bannorn. That part's in our histories, I think, and the locals, they also say so. She finally gets herself defeated by none other than Cormac the Great, but not before she's conquered half of Ferelden. He's my namesake, ser, Cormac is. Proud to have the name."

"Indeed," I say. What else is there to say?

"Well, the locals, they say Cormac took her head clean off, mounted it on a pike, and burnt her body. But in the morning – the morning after the battle, I mean – they say the head and body, what was left of it at least, they're gone. She never was seen since, but they say her daughters survived, and they're the Witches of the Wild now, and they hate us just as much as Flemeth ever did."

"And do you believe the locals?" I ask, though I'm only half interested.

Sergeant Cormac chuckles. "Only when it's dark and the wind is bad. No, you ask me, it's just superstition – someone to blame when a child goes missing or the milk goes sour. My wager – not that I put in any bet myself, but if I was to – my wager is those scouts met a bad end with some darkspawn. It was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn't it? War's war, after all."

"War's war," I repeat, as though I know what this means. As though it means anything. "If you can tell me, sergeant, how do the patrols find their way down to the Wilds? The cliffs we saw on the way into camp were quite steep."

The question has been nagging at me since we found the palisade. The valley and the bridge are behind us, across the encampment. Although I've not seen it yet, I assume there must be some means of travel from the outcroppings down into the valley. After all, the bulk of the army is camped below.

"Right, well, it's not just a cliff, not all along. Haven't been out there to see for myself, but the locals tell me it's more of a ridge in places, just a steep hill in a few others. There's a path outside this gate, leads to a stretch of the cliff that fell apart in some landslide. It's steep – a bitch to climb up or down, I've heard – but it can be done. Those darkspawn buggers, they've tried climbing up that way a few times now. There was quite a bit of fighting there just last week, actually, but we had the hill on our side, and I'm told none of them so much as reached the top. We've skirmishers posted there day and night, so we'll have warning if they give it another go."

If the cliff is not as impassable as it looks, perhaps I have a better understanding of why we encountered the scouts so early this morning – and of why parties are being set out.

"Thank you again for your help, sergeant."

"Oh, no, no! It's my pleasure. Anything for the Wardens," he says, beaming. "We'll all look to you when battle is joined."

I incline my head politely and step away. I'm not thrilled to imagine anyone looking to me as an example, especially in battle. I survived Highever by luck alone, and am not even truly a Warden, no matter what I may have implied to the good sergeant.

The best thing for everyone would be to perch me on a ledge somewhere with a quiver full of arrows and an instruction to kill as many darkspawn as I can. Thereafter, I could be ignored until a real Warden, or perhaps an overzealous king, fells the Archdemon. That, or until we are all overrun. Either way, I look to play no decisive role in the battle to come, and none should look to me for such a service, either.

Daveth is still flirting with the brunette as I approach. It's easy to see why he's enamored. Crystal blue eyes twinkle from underneath strands of short short-cropped hair that fall across her forehead, and her full lips are curled into a mischievous smirk.

"So," Daveth is telling her, "what I mean is, you don't have any last wishes before we head into battle?"

There's a twinkle in his eyes, and a boyish sincerity in his lopsided grin. He might even be described as charming.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the woman replies, feigning innocence as she bats her lashes. She's playing along, I think, egging him on.

She is about Daveth's age, I think. A few years my senior. Now that I'm beside Daveth, I notice another female soldier standing nearby, watching with a frown.

"Well, my dear Marian," Daveth continues earnestly, "life is fleeing, you know. I don't mean to alarm you, but that pretty face of yours could be decorating a darkspawn spear before the week's out."

"Not likely, Warden." Marian smirks. "I know my way around a... _blade._ "

She actually winks as she says this, and Daveth's jaw goes a bit slack.

All right, really? Are blade-related puns a common form of innuendo? Despite growing up with Aeron, I don't think I've ever heard this particular euphemism until Daveth himself used it last night, to mock Jory – and now, less than a day later, the same wordplay's being turned on him.

Before Daveth can respond, a new voice interrupts: "You're wasting your time, friend."

We both turn. A man, who by his features can only be Marian's brother, is walking up from the camp.

Like Marian, he has dark hair, though his is cut much shorter, and he wears a full beard. Also like Marian, he is clad in traditional Ferelden armor, kilt and all. His is of better quality, however, and better cared for: the leather has been oiled regularly, and I can see where he's buffed out cuts and divots, disguising signs of past battles. There are other signs, however, that cannot be hidden: pale lines cross his face and neck, and a chunk is missing one nose.

The man's most striking feature, however, is a swath of red across the bridge of his nose, like paint swiped from cheekbone to cheekbone. As he draws nearer, I think it is a tattoo, though I've never seen one like it.

"Come now, ser knight," Daveth says. "Time's never a-wasted, speaking with a lovely lady."

"I'm no knight," says the man-who-is-not-a-knight. "My name's Garret Hawke, a simple and altogether-untitled adventurer, loyally pledged to this glorious army. And that's my sister, I believe, that you're trying to woo."

"Well, then, Garrett, no disrespect intended, but isn't your sister old enough she can talk to whoever she pleases?"

Garrett Hawke throws his head back and laughs. Marian grins as well, and so does the other female soldier, still standing at a distance.

"Oh, you mistake me, friend," Garret says. "My sister can protect her own honor well enough."

"Such as it is," Marian interjects wryly.

"I'm only trying to save you some disappointment," Garret continues.

"Disappointment?"

"You're barking up the wrong tree, friend."

Daveth looks from Garret to Marian, then back, and then back again.

At last, Marian inclines her head toward the nearby soldier meaningfully, and comprehension dawns on Daveth's face. For a moment, he's speechless.

I'm learning, however, that for Daveth such a condition rarely persists.

"Well, that's a disappointment, isn't it?" he says, once he's recovered his wits. "I was just thinking to myself, a comely lass like you must have bad eyesight to give me any time of day at all. But I got nothing you want, do I? Just toying with me, were you? Well, I can't be angry. You're too pretty, you are. Besides, don't mind saying, just the thought of you two together should be enough to keep me warm at night, if it's no difference to you two?"

"If thinking of us stokes your fires, then I'm glad we can be of service, Warden," Marian says, with a throaty chuckle that probably makes Daveth weak at his knees.

Honing in on probably the last part of that exchange I'd have expected, Garret turns to me and asks, "You're Wardens?"

"Uh, yes. Well, soon to be." There's no point dancing around the truth now that I have what I need from the sergeant, and besides, I get the feeling that very few lies slip past this man. "We're among the newest recruits. My name's Liam."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he says, sincerely. "Our father had some dealing with your Order, though I never learned the details. If you've got the time once the battle's over, I'd buy you a drink. There's much I'd like to learn about the Wardens – and even if there isn't, beer's good."

I can't help returning his smile; he reminds me of an older Aeron. "I won't turn down a drink, but your coin might be better spent on another. I doubt I'd be able to answer any question worth asking."

"Then bring me whoever you think has the answers, and I'll buy drinks all around!" Garret offers me a hand. We shake wish each other good luck. Then he turns away, walking back toward the little shack, calling out to Sergeant Cormac about news from some captain.

The other soldier, Marian's lover, sidles up. She's watching Daveth closely as he tries one last pitch.

"Just think about it, ladies. A man in the mix could add a bit of spice, even just for one night. Never a bad idea to try new things..."

Marian chuckles again, rolling her eyes. Her lover shoots Daveth a sour look.

"Come on, Hawke," she says, taking Marian's hand and pulling her away.

"Shall I take those adorable glares as a no?" Daveth calls after them.

Marian looks back over her shoulder as she's led back toward the fire. "I'm taken, as you can see, and milady here isn't the sharing type." She winks again. "Better luck next time!"

Next to me, Daveth lets out a long sigh. "Blimey," he mutters. "So close."

…

 **Rather than backtracking through the infirmary,** I lead us further along the palisade before cutting down toward the valley. The camp is larger than I'd imagined, and I still haven't seen it all. This may be my only chance to get a first-hand understanding of our position, and there's no real hurry, so I see no reason to waste this opportunity.

Whether he's thinking of his near miss with Marian Hawke or brooding about our enemy, I don't know, but Daveth remains silent. I'm a bit irritated to realize I miss his prattling. Any conversation is better than the silence, but I've no idea where to start.

Soon enough, we find the valley's edge. Far below, rows of tents stretch out like checkered patterns on a quilt. Smoke rises from hundreds upon hundreds of fires, and columns of men travel down wide avenues, marching chants audible as faint whispers on the wind.

We turn right here, following the valley's path back toward the bridge and the king's tents. Unless I've gotten myself completely turned around, I guess we've at least ten minutes left to walk. Too long to be alone with my thoughts.

Finally, awkwardly, I screw up the courage to extend an offer of conversation. "Are you – do you want to come with me to see the Circle?" I ask.

It's is a stupid question, with an obvious answer. Daveth has been following me for the better part of ten minutes since leaving the guard post, and he's made no move to part – not when we passed a group of women with daring necklines and come-hither eyes, nor when a burly soldier invites us to share in a side of roasted elk he's carving above an open fire. If fair skin and roasted food haven't distracted him, it's a safe bet he's coming along. Yet, still, I ask.

Daveth stares at me blankly for a moment, as though he didn't quite hear. Then he nods. "Sure. Got nothing else going on, do I? Besides, I don't reckon I ever saw a mage up close before"

"You've never seen a mage?"

"Well, I seen them plenty of times at a distance. Seen one of them Tevinter ones, too, once. A magistrate, they're called?  
"A Magister, I think it is."

"Oh, right. Right. A _Magister._ " Daveth seems as grateful as I am for the distraction. "He was in the Denerim markets. Fancy-looking fellow, wore his robes tied up with a belt around his waist, and had quite a hood over his head, all fancy-like. Would've liked to get my hands on his purse, but he had about twenty guards with him."

"You're lucky you didn't try anything. They've a reputation for being quite ruthless, from what I've read."

"Right, I thought so too. They're all blood mages, aren't they?"

Brother Aldous told me this is only a rumor, and is likely only true of some of the Magisters, but I don't feel like quibbling.

"All the better you didn't try to pick his pocket, then," I say. "Who knows what he'd have done if he caught you."

"Right? Drained me dry, like as not. Or turned me into some demon or other."

Again, though I'm not sure this is remotely plausible, I just nod.

As we stroll, we continue in this vein, the conversation flowing from one topic to another, often based on our surroundings in the camp. Periodically, something Daveth says will be outlandish enough that I have to bite my tongue, stifling my natural impulse to correct any misinformation. Mother used to chide me for being a know-it-all; Aeron often made similar observations, though he was less polite.

We follow the valley's edge back toward the bridge, which remains out of sight, blocked by stands of trees and the valley's natural curve. I can tell by changes in the camp that we must be drawing close, though. The rows of small canvas tents have given way to workshops and merchants stands, and I can see colored banners fluttering just beyond a nearby rise.

The valley twists, and we follow. Soon, I can see the high stone arches that connect the eastern and western sides of the camp, still a half a mile off. Much closer, I finally discover a means of page from the valley to the outcropping, and back again: a stone ramp, wide and shallow, built against the face of the cliff.

There are soldiers posted at the top, a contingent similar in number and armament to Sergeant Cormac's unit at the gate. These troops, however, are slouched against old columns, or sagging as they lean on their spears for support. A few are sitting, legs sprawled out, backs against stumps. It's all quite slovenly, in fact, but none of them seem to be enjoying their laziness, either.

They regard Daveth and I warily, staring at us with hollow eyes as we pass them by. As guards go, these are not the least bit impressive.

After we pass, I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a better look at the long ramp down. I'm disappointed by the view, though I can make out what I think are grooves cut along either side, likely for channeling rain.

If there's time later, I'd like to go back, to study it more closely. That ramp must be wide enough for two wagons abreast, and its pitch is so gentle that I think it must stretch for at least a mile before reaching the valley floor. I am not an engineer, nor a historian, but the magnitude of what the Tevinter Imperium accomplished in this fortress almost defies comprehension.

The work Mother commissioned on the cliff-side path leading up to the servant's exit took years to complete, and that project was merely the addition of a few steps and sturdier railings. This ramp – its construction alone must have taken a legion of slaves, and decades of sweat and blood, and more timber than could be found in a forest of trees.

Whether the rumors Daveth and I have traded about the Tevinter Magisters are true or not, I don't know. All I know is that I am standing in the footprints of an Empire whose accomplishments have lingered on for millennia. Can Ferelden make such a claim? My people were no more than tribes, only beginning to master the arts of farming, when these stones were raised.

At first, it's just humbling.

But then, a dozen paces later, it's chilling, too, because I remember another of Brother Aldous' lessons about Tevinter. Not about their politics, nor about their Magisters.

About their empire's fall.

The Tevinter Imperium, I remember, was brought to its knees by the First Blight.

The same power at which I have just been marveling – the same Magisters that Daveth and I have been taught to fear – all was undone by the very enemy that now awaits us in the Wilds.

As thoughts go, this isn't an encouraging one.

…

 **The Circle encampment is easy to spot,** once we've finally walked far enough. It is, as the Sister told me, at the camp's southernmost edge, more than a five-minute walk from the nearest tents and merchants. Only the stockade, with its cages and chains and sallow prisoners, is within sight.

I wonder if this quarantine is to accommodate the mages' privacy, or to assuage the fears of commoners. Or perhaps the templars made the choice; it is their job, after all, to guard men from mages, and mages from men.

Whatever the reason, there is a distinct sense of transition as we approach. We have left the army behind entirely, and entered a different place altogether. It is quiet here, almost eerily so, and still, as though frozen in time. Nothing moves beside the gentlest of breezes.

The tents that make up the encampment are finer than any I've seen, except perhaps for the King's. Their fabric shimmers, and their colors are undimmed by the pallor that hangs over the rest of Ostagar. There are more than a dozen, each pitched tightly against the next, arrayed in a half-circle at the cliff's edge. Half are royal purple, bordered at each edge with brilliant white; half are crimson, emblazoned on each side with a flaming, golden sword, the symbol of the Templar Order.

Though I cannot see past the tents, shimmering smoke rises from their midst, suggesting an open space at their center, and a bonfire bigger than any we've seen in the rest of the camp.

Pairs of armored Templar knights walk slowly around the encampment's perimeter; more stand guard outside a narrow gap between the tents. They watch us as we approach, though most wear full-faced helmets with dark slits over the eyes, making it impossible to gauge their expression. Their shields and breastplates bear the same sigil as the crimson tents, and they wear sashes of the same color beneath their sword belts.

As we draw nearer, the stillness becomes stifling. There's a crackling humidity in the air, a tension like the pause between breathes, pregnant with power. The energy intensifies with every step, prickling my nose and tightening my skin.

"You feel that?" I mutter.

"Blimey…"

By the time we reach the Templar guards at the passage between tents, my hair is standing on end.

"Ho there, stranger." One of the templars has stepped forward, holding up a gauntleted hand. "State your business."

"We're with the Grey Wardens," I say. I'm getting pretty good at this. "My name is Liam, and this is my companion, Daveth. We –"

"Ah, you must be with Alistair. My name is Knight-Lieutenant Mason. I knew Alistair when he was a recruit with _our_ Order, before yours stole him away. I trust he's proved of more use to you and he was to us?"

The way he says it, he seems to be in good humor, but with the helmet obscuring his face, I really have no idea.

I glance at Daveth uncertainly. He licks his lips, and says, "Ah, well, I wouldn't know about that milord. He's been with the Wardens more time than we, milord."

A chuckle echoes out from Ser Mason's helm. "Then you two must be as junior as they come. But you are here for Alistair, I assume?"

Daveth nods. Hesitantly, I follow his lead.

"Very well then. It's this way." Ser Mason beckons we follow as he walks through the gap between tents. "Quiet as we go, if you please. The mages are not to be interrupted. Their spirits are in the Fade."

As we trail behind the Knight Lieutenant, I catch Daveth's eye and make a face – trying to ask if he has any idea what's going on, or why Alistair would be here. He shrugs, apparently as confused as I am.

Before I can begin to puzzle it out, we find ourselves in a wide yard bounded by the tents. The cliff is very near, and over its edge we are afforded a rather impressive view of the endless, misty forest stretching away below. An enormous bonfire blazes within a brazier that so large that I think it could hold ten of the ones we saw in the army camp.

Around the fire, a score of men and women stand with their eyes closed, swaying in place. Though they do not move exactly in tandem with one another, there's a symmetry to their movement. It's as if they're listening to music I can't hear, or floating in a current I can't feel or see.

Many of the mages look Ferelden – men and women with ruddy complexions and brown or red hair – but I also see a woman whose face is the color of rich chocolate, and there are at least three elves among the group. Some are old enough to be my grandparents, and others look a few years younger than me. All, however, wear long, simple robes, and every mage carries a staff.

Each staff is as unique as its owner: some are made of wood, others of various metals; a few are nearly works of art, inscribed with intricate patterns along their entire length, while others are little more than gnarled branches; many are affixed with grips not unlike those on a sword or a bow; a few have small blades affixed at the base, for use in combat, I assume.

The energy in the air seems to come from the tips of the staffs. Some are capped with gems, while others end in a gnarl of roots, or a twist of patterned metal, or a talisman of twigs lashed to the staff itself. In every case, however, they air shimmers around the end of the staffs, like heat baking off stones at the height of summer.

When I look directly at these whorls, these distortions in the fabric of reality, the static grows to a roar. I feel lightheaded, and force myself to look away.

"What – what're they doing?" Daveth asks in a stage whisper.

"As I said, their spirits are in the Fade," Ser Mason says, his voice terse now. "They are _meditating_." The way he says the word, I get the feeling he doesn't trust it.

Now that I've torn my eyes away from the mages, I see they are outnumbered. At least twice as many Templars line the yard's perimeter. The knights watch their wards like hawks. Many rest their hands on their swords; some have un-slung their shields.

"We cannot be too careful," Ser Mason says, nodding at this show of force. "Not if this truly is a Blight."

I have to bite to my tongue to keep from asking what he means. If I'm a Warden, I should know all about the Blight. Can't be asking stupid questions, no matter how curious I am.

We've passed halfway around the yard now. We're approaching one of the purple tents.

"Alistair is in here," Ser Mason says, and moves to open the tent's flap.

"Um, actually…" I stammer.

He pauses. I imagine, if I could see his eyes, he'd be looking at me skeptically.

"Actually," I repeat, trying to sound more confident. "We've no need to interrupt his business just yet. We're here for…a _different_ matter."

"Oh? I apologize. I had assumed -"

"No, it's my fault, I should have spoken up sooner." I take a breath. Here we go. Trying not to sound too hesitant, I ask: "Have you heard anything of what happened at Highever?"

Ser Mason turns to face me more directly. His helmet shakes from left to right.

"Highever – well, there was an attack, of some sort." My mouth is dry. I've rehearsed these lies and half-truths since we arrived. "We were there seeking recruits and – and resting our horses. The city fell, and we had no choice but to flee. Though I – we do not know what happened – we saw mages among the fighting. At least three mages."

A fool could see through my story, I think. Gods be damned, I wish I could see his eyes.

He says nothing.

"We – we were not certain for whom they fought." My words come in a rush now. "We did not know if they were apostates or – or if they were members of the Circle, caught as we were in the battle. I had hoped someone among your order or – or one of the mages – might know?"

The templar stares at me for another wordless moment.

Then he nods.

"Come with me."

We turn back the way we've come, circling the yard again.

"I had not heard of any fighting at Highever," says Ser Mason, walking beside me and speaking softly. "We've been here at least a fortnight, however, and we've had precious little news since. Before we left, there'd been no authorized excursions for any of our mages since news of the darkspawn reached us. Still, Aenid may know better. If any travel permits were issued, he will know, and he may have seen news I've missed."

I'm sure the Knight-Lieutenant has seen through my lies – certain he is leading us out of the camp under a pretense, hoping to avoid a disturbance before he sends us packing – or claps us in irons.

Instead, we continue around, to the other side of the yard. He leads us to a wide, oak table just outside another of the purple tents. The table is covered in books, quills, and stacks of papers weighted down by smooth stones.

A man stands at the table, his back to us, his head down. His robes are unmistakably those of a Chantry brother, though the colors are subdued – all dusty brown except for a purple sash, lacking the golds and crimsons I associate with clergy of every rank. The man is studying the contents of a thick ledger, running a slender finger down lines of script.

"Aenid," Ser Mason says. "Good afternoon."

Aenid taps a spot on his ledger, straightens, and then, slowly and deliberately, then turns to face us.

"Good afternoon, Ser Mason."

Aenid's voice, like his movements, is stilted, almost entirely without inflection.

"These men are Wardens. They require information regarding mages that they encountered in Highever, I believe during a battle of some sort."

"Ah, I see." Aenid inclines his head respectfully to Daveth and I. "It is my honor to assist you, Wardens."

When he finally looks at me, I find Aenid has kind eyes, though they are unfocused. It's like he's staring past me, or through me. He wears a full beard, and though it's cut close, it seems to obscure his age. He could be thirty or fifty, and neither would surprise me.

He would be quite plain, in fact, if it were not for the Chantry sunburst emblazoned on his forehead.

The sunburst is bright orange at the cure, and deep red about the edges. Just like it appears in the stained glass of a chapel, or on the breast of a brother's tunic. At first, I think this be a tattoo – but I see there is texture beneath the rays, the skin raised unevenly. With a shock, I realize the image has been branded onto Aenid's skin.

"You appear confused, young ser. Have you never met one of the Tranquil?"

With a start, I realize I've been staring, and quickly look away. If Aenid is offended, however, he hides it well.

"I – no, I have not."

"Ah. Well, _I_ am a Tranquil," Aenid says placidly, as though this explains it all.

The sister, I think, at the field hospital – she said something about the Tranquil – she described them as "those silent fellows," if I remember right. But Aenid is hardly mute.

Something on the table flashes, catching my eye. The stones, which I had taken for mere paperweights, are inscribed with symbols – not so remarkable, perhaps, except that these symbols glow with bright colors that pulse slowly, as though they are windows into a glowing coal at the heart of each stone.

I look back up at Aenid.

"Are you a mage?" I ask.

"Yes and no. I am of the Circle of Magi, but I am no longer a mage."

"You…you _were_ a mage?"

"Indeed."

"But…you're not anymore?" Daveth asks, as confused as I am.

"Perhaps I have asked the wrong question," Aenid replies. "I asked if you had never met one of the Tranquil. Perhaps I should have asked if you know of the Tranquil?"

I shake my head. Beside me, Daveth does the same.

"Then allow me to ask another question: Do you know why those with magical talent are feared?"

"That's easy enough," Daveth says. "Magic's power, isn't it? Pure as power gets. And power's dangerous, no matter who's got hands on it."

"Indeed. Yet magic is dangerous even beyond its power. The Chant teaches that magic leads to Sin. Even if we were not blessed with Scripture, however, a logical basis would still remain for fear of magic. Demons and other spirits are attracted to the emotions of mortals, and also to those of us who possess magical talent. We can be possessed much more easily than those who do not possess the talent, particularly when our emotions burn with intensity. That is our curse. That is why I was made Tranquil. When we are stripped of emotion and magical talent, we are no longer dangerous. I am no longer dangerous."

For a moment, it's quiet, as Daveth and I digest this information. Nearby, Knight-Lieutenant Mason shifts his weight, watching silently.

"Wait," Daveth says at last. He sounds horrified. "You're saying they… what'd they _do_ to you?"

"The Templars possess the authority to enact the Rite of Tranquility. It is bequeathed to them by the Chantry. They brand the forehead, and still the talent and the emotion of the mind. The process is irreversible, and brings an end to the danger."

"And you…you don't feel _anything?_ " Daveth presses.

If someone who has supposedly been stripped of emotion can be made to feel uncomfortable, then I'm sure Daveth is pushing Aenid that way. I hiss Daveth's name, hoping he'll catch a hint and drop this persistent questioning. If he hears, however, he ignores me.

"I feel physical sensations," Aenid explains, also ignoring me. "I have retained my memories, and my intellectual abilities. However, beyond these, it is as you say: I feel nothing."

"Fuck me," Daveth whispers. He's gone pale again, like when he saw the genlock's corpse. "That's fucking awful. I'm…I'm sorry, mate."

"There is no need to apologize. I feel no regret. I am content to serve in my role."

"You – you do remember, though?"

"Many puzzled by this," Aenid says. "For instance, you appear quite troubled. You should not be. In answer to your query: Yes, I do remember that I felt. However, I do not remember what this means. As the name suggests, my existence is quite tranquil. I am alive. I am productive. I pose no danger to anyone. I am at peace. Surely this is not so terrible a circumstance? Yet, I have learned it is difficult to explain.

"You don't need to explain yourself," I assure him.

Daveth just stands there, blinking.

"Perhaps," Ser Mason says dryly, "you might wish to get to the matter at hand?"

"Of course," Aenid says. "What information do you require?"

I nod gratefully. "During our journey, we passed through Highever. While there, we found ourselves in the midst of an assault on the town, and witnessed several mages involved in the battle."

For some reason, the lies and half truths come more easily speaking to Aenid than they did with Ser Mason, or Sergeant Cormac before him. I've never had cause to be anything but honest, not since I was a grubby-faced child trying to sneak cakes from the kitchens. It's not a skill I ever imagined honing. But it seems I'm not as bad at it as I'd expected. Or hoped.

I'm not sure whether to be pleased or ashamed.

Then again, I'm not sure whether this is easy because I'm catching a knack for dishonesty – or because these lies about Highever's fall are easier than the truth.

Realizing I've paused for too long, I rush through the rest of my explanation. We want to know whether the mages might have belonged to the circle, and if not we want to alert the Templars about apostates. I'm still stammering when Aenid politely interrupts.

So much for developing a knack.

"Pardon me," he says. "Perhaps you could tell me when this occurred?"

"About – about fourteen days ago. Two weeks, I mean."

"Ah," says Aenid. He turns to the table and moves one of the glowing stones. The orange light flares at his touch, then dulls again when placed on a different stack of papers.

Next to me, Daveth clears his throat. When I turn, he catches my eye and shakes his head meaningfully. He starts to back away.

Though I've no idea why this Tranquil has affected him so deeply, I nod assent. Daveth turns on his heel and walks back the way we came, brushing past Ser Mason without a word.

I wonder if this is somehow related to the darkspawn corpse. Maybe it's just too much weirdness, too soon. If so, I can certainly understand.

Aenid straightens and turns back to me. "I find no record of any outstanding travel permits granted to any mage from Kinloch Hold during the time you have described. The only travelers recorded this year are certain senior enchanters gifted in the healing arts. These enchanters often travel with the Chantry's blessing, to minister to all in need. All were recalled upon notice of darkspawn activity. Since their return, no other mages have departed Kinloch Hold, aside from our current expedition."

It takes me a moment to remember that Kinloch Hold is the proper title for the Circle of Magi here in Ferelden. Though I've never seen it, I'm familiar with its reputation: the hold is actually a tower, built on a small island in the middle of Lake Calenhad, accessible only by boat.

"Is there…do mages ever travel without it being recorded?"

"If so, I would not know." He pauses for a moment, then, with no inflection whatsoever, adds: "Nor would I be permitted to tell you, if I did. I hope you will understand."

I can't help chuckling at this deadpan admission. "Of course. Would the same be true of escapes?"

"That is correct."

I sigh and look at Ser Mason. His helmet stares back, implacable.

There's got to be another angle. Even if I can't find answers here, there must be some avenue I can pursue – some clue about where to go next.

"What about – do you know if anyone tracks groups of apostates?"

"I do. The Templars track all reports of suspicious magical activity."

"Do you – can you access those records?"

"No," says Ser Mason. "That is Templar business alone."

"I apologize," Aenid says placidly, "if I have failed to be helpful to you."

It's hard to be cross in the face of such serene sincerity. I'm just trying to form a courteous smile, just about to tell him that's not what I meant.

But before I do, a woman bursts from the tent behind Aenid. She's still fiddling with a clasp at the neck of her robes, and her gray hair is unkempt, as though she's just awoken. She's scowling, although the expression looks unnatural on her face, and her narrowed eyes settle on me almost immediately.

"Can I help you, young man? Her tone suggests help is not, in fact, what she intends to offer.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I should think it's a simple enough question," she says sharply. She glares briefly at Ser Mason, then turns aside to the address the Tranquil very kindly. "Good afternoon, Aenid."

"Good afternoon, Wynne," he replies.

This Wynne wears tan robes, gathered at her waist by a brown belt, and bearing the symbol of the Circle of Magi in silver stitching across the breast. On her belt, she carries dozens of small, leather pouches, each one barely large enough to hold a handful of coins, and a wooden staff hangs across her back. Though I would guess she must be in her late fifties, her face is almost completely smooth.

She's staring at me again, and I'm reminded of nothing so much as a stern grandmother.

"Well?" she demands, not breaking the stare as she gathers her hair into a tight bun at the back of her head in a series of quick, practiced movements.

"My name is Liam," I venture.

"Yes, I heard, and you're with the Wardens. What I don't understand is why you feel the need to pester Aenid, when he's already answered your questions."

"I – that was not my intent."

I'm rather confused, and glance at Ser Mason. The way he's standing, I can tell he's watching closely, and I think he's more than a little amused. He offers me no help, however.

"No? Then surely you have business to attend to elsewhere. I imagine the Wardens have all sorts of pressing business, even for their very young members."

"If you heard all that," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "then surely you also heard why I'm here."

"Yes. Mages at Highever. And I'm sure we, and our Templar brethren, appreciate this information. Thank you for relaying it to us. Now, unless there was something else you needed to bother Aenid with?"

"I am trying to understand what happened, my lady," I say, biting my tongue to hold back the venom. "Perhaps you have some advice, as to who else I might _bother?"_

"Advice? Never. You young ones know far too much of the world already, I wouldn't want to presume. Now be on your way."

"I'm just…" I sigh.

What can I say, that doesn't reveal too much? Or is there any point in secrecy at all?

Deciding that I'll learn more by watching her reactions than I will by trying to conceal the truth, I nod.

"I'm _from_ Highever," I admit, the first part of a half-truth. "I haven't been back since joining the Wardens, except to see it burning. I'm just looking for answers."

Immediately, her face softens. "Ah. Then I apologize. I thought you were making sport of my friend, Aenid. More than a few young men have decided to make Tranquil mages the butt of their jokes, and too few are willing to stand up for our Tranquil brethren." Here, she shoots a sidelong glance at Ser Mason. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wynne. I am a Senior Enchanter at Kinloch Hold, and I command the contingent of Healers summoned by the king."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."

"Just Wynne, please. Liam, isn't it? You rode into camp earlier with Duncan, I believe. One of his new recruits. He is not a man easily impressed. You should be proud."

Of all the things I feel, pride is probably furthest from my heart lately. I nod, however, trying not to let my expression give anything away.

"Did you lose friends in Highever?"

I nod, hoping my face does not betray me.

"And your family?"

This time I don't even try. I don't need to. Her sympathy is a tool I can use. So, quite honestly, and with genuine sorrow, I say, "Dead."

There's a twinge of guilt as I watch the last traces of guardedness fall away from her face.

"Oh, you poor child. I'm sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. But I can assure you, Aenid's records are correct. No travel permits have been granted for months." She smiles, an expression that looks far more natural on her face than the earlier scowl. "I should know, as all of mine have been denied."

I'm not sure why, but I ask, "Do you travel often?"

Wynne nods. "I am a healer, and quite a talented one. I serve mostly in the Bannorn, and sometimes in the northwest, as far as West Hill or Crestwood, but I have dear friends who travel to Highever often. None of them have left the tower in months. Did I hear you ask Aenid about escapes?"

"Yes."

"I would not know the answer," repeats Aenid, who has been watching our conversation quietly.

"No indeed," Wynne says, regarding him affectionately for a moment. "And I assume you will offer no insight to us, Ser Mason?"

"No indeed," replies the Templar. "Even for a Warden from Highever…" He pauses significantly, letting me know that he noticed my earlier omission. "Even then, it is as I said: this is Templar business alone."

"Well then." Wynne sighs. "We shall have to piece it together as best we can ourselves. Surely Ser Mason will not object? Good. So, tell me, how many mages did you see at Highever?"

"At least…" I try to recall the report from the guards at the gate, who said Howe's men had more mages with them. They saw two mages among the forces assaulting the defenses, and there was the one we killed in the great hall. "At least three," I say. "But there could have been more."

Wynne nods. "Then I think I have your answer. There has been only one successful escape from the Circle in the last few years. It was recent, but only one mage escape, and he was barely more than a boy. Most likely, you saw apostates. Many reports indicate their numbers grow during Blights. Tell me, what sort of magic did you see?"

This question is quite specific, and, again, I find myself at a disadvantage as I struggle to decide how much to reveal about a subject I don't fully understand.

"There was lightening," I say, after a moment. "Lightening, and what looked like ropes of energy that cut two men in half. They caused an explosion. An at least one of them had…had some sort of shield around himself. Arrows wouldn't pierce it."

"Nothing you have described sounds particularly advanced. Any mage with even a base understanding of elemental magic could accomplish such spells. If they belonged to a coven of blood mages, for instance, I would have expected something rather more elaborate. Did you notice any deformities on the mages?"

"Deformities?"

"Yes. Anything out of the ordinary – misshapen body parts, discoloration of the skin?"

I shake my head.

"Then they were not abominations, either. So, having ruled out those particular concerns, I suspect that those you encountered were merely apostates, caught up in the fighting." She pauses, considering. "Do you have anything to add, Lieutenant?"

"No, indeed."

"And would you disagree with any of my conclusions thus far?"

Ser Mason sighs. "I rarely do. Although, of course, I can neither confirm nor deny the Senior Enchanter's account of an escape."

"No, of course not," she says, rather tartly. "Now, tell me, Liam: these mages, did they seem to be one side or the other?"

Again, I have to decide how much to reveal. Again, I cannot find an advantage in deceit.

"They seemed to be fighting against Highever," I admit.

"I see." Her brow furrows, and she looks at me intently. "Is there, by any chance, something you're leaving out?"

I nod once, slowly.

"I see," she repeats. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Do you wish to tell me what that is?"

"I don't mean any offense, but –"

"And none is taken," she interrupts. "Now, I hope _you_ won't take any offense, but I'm not in the habit of fumbling around, trying to answer questions that haven't been asked. So, are there any other questions on your mind, young man?"

I start to speak several times before settling on the right words.

"Do…do mages ever serve specific houses? Noble houses, I mean?"

Ser Mason shifts when I say this, cocking his helmet to one side. Wynne, too, seems startled. No doubt they're both inferring a great deal from my question, but neither one presses for more information.

"No," Wynne says. "Kings have, at times, chosen a magical advisor, as many rulers do. But no Teyrn or Arl has been permitted such a privilege since the advent of the Chantry and the Circles. It would be contrary to Andraste's teachings. That does not always stop the powerful, of course, but it is not done in the open – not outside Tevinter, at any rate. Is there anything else?"

I nod, though now I'm straying into matters of mere curiosity.

"You mentioned that apostates are more common during Blights. I've heard that before, but no one's been able to tell me why. Does – does the Blight make more people mages, or does it make people who are already mages more… more likely to become apostates."

I was about to say _dangerous_ , but I have no idea if it would be offensive.

"Apostates are merely mages who do not belong to a Circle," Wynne says, and I'm reminded of the way Brother Aldous used to sound when repeating a lesson. "People choose to be apostates for many reasons. Some fear the Circle, and others deny their innate magical talent. Occassionally, Circle mages flee. And there are mages among the less civilized peoples, as well – the Dalish, the Chasind, or the Avvar, for example. All these are considered Apostates. There are also many people who possess latent magical abilities, which go unnoticed in the course of an ordinary life. But Blights cause turmoil. Apostates are sometimes forced to reveal themselves to society at large, and those who do not even know they possess magic may lash out to protect their families. Abominations are more commonly reported, as well, for the same reasons – a demon's whisper might be much harder to ignore when it offers to protect your family from darkspawn. But, to address the root of your question, _no_ – there is nothing about the Blight itself, so far as I know, that tempts mages. It's possible the Wardens know otherwise, but I doubt it. If they did, the Mages would not be called upon the fight the darkspawn – and yet, we have helped in every past Blight."

"Thank you," I say. "I think I understand."

"It is my pleasure, young man. I wish more people would ask questions of us, instead of simply fearing us, or wondering how they might exploit us. I've always found that the better one understands something, the less frightening it becomes. We must all work together, if we're to defeat the darkspawn, but that's not an idea that everyone seems to grasp. Heaven knows, they don't defeat themselves."

"Have you faced them before, then?"

"Stragglers, yes. My arts cannot always wait until the battle is ended, so I've learned to defend myself. They're fearsome to behold, but not all that difficult to put down." She says it like it's nothing – and maybe for her, it's not. She has more weapons to call on than most women her age – than most people of any age, I suppose.

"I'm glad to hear that," I say, thinking of the genlock corpse.

"Tell me, do you know much about the darkspawn? Do you know of their connection to the Fade, for example?"

"The Fade is where they began, isn't it?"

"Very good. Yes, that's what the Chantry teaches. The darkspawn are linked to the Black City – the placed in the Fade that they say used to be the seat of the Maker. It was called the Golden City then, and it was visible from every corner of the Fade, whether men walked there in dreams or by magic. But when the Magisters of the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted by their sin. That taint transformed them, twisting them into reflections of their own wicked hearts, and then they were cast back to earth, where they became the first darkspawn." She looks me directly in the eye and smiles, perhaps a bit shrewdly, before adding, "At least, that's what the Chantry teaches."

"The Chant teaches many things," I say, and she nods approvingly.

"I believe much of the Chant is meant to be an allegory. More than a legend, but less than history. We know some of it must be accurate, since records exist from the time before the First Blight, telling of a shining city at the center of the Fade – and any mage can tell you that the city is dark now. As to the rest of it – who knows? The tale, I think, is a way to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering. Just as it is not the Blight itself that brings apostates into conflict with others, or tempts mages to give in to demons – so the Blight itself does not _cause_ evil. Evil is always with us."

This is a bit deeper than I expected the conversation to go, and unlike the earlier discussion, it provides me with no concrete information. Still, Wynne has been helpful. "It's something to ponder, in any case."

"Yes," she says. "Occasionally, it's wise to contemplate one's actions – and their cost. Tell me, Liam, have you lived long enough to realize this?"

A single, bitter laugh escapes before I can bite it back. "I know something of regret, yes."

"I am sorry," she says, and I believe she means it.

"So am I. For now, though, what difference does it make? Regret, I mean. The same enemy waits in the forest, no matter what's in my past."

"If I've learned anything in all my years, it is that there's always a job that needs doing. The past cannot change that, but it can change the way we approach those tasks."

"Then I'm thankful this task is simple. I'll just kill every darkspawn I see. We can sort the rest out later."

She smiles, perhaps a bit sadly. "A wise attitude," she says. "One that has worked well enough for me, when my own wounds were raw. There were no darkspawn then, I'm afraid, but a challenge often helps focus us, until we are ready to heal."

I don't want to tell her that there's no healing what I've lost, so I just nod.

"I want to apologize again," she says, "for thinking so little of you, when I overheard you questioning Aenid. I leapt to judgment, unfairly it seems."

"It's all right," I say. This, at least, I mean sincerely.

"All the same," he says, and reaches out to the table, lifting up one of the smooth stones. The fluorescent green symbols on its surface, two ovals connected by an arched line, glow brightly in her fingers. "What do you know of enchantment?"

I shrug, shake my head.

"Perhaps you could explain, Aenid? Briefly?"

"It would be my pleasure," he says, though his voice betrays none of the pleasure he's claiming. "Enchantment is the practice of folding Lyrium into various items, through the use of runes. This practice was originally discovered by dwarves, but it has been perfected by the Tranquil. Our runes supply much of the income that the Circles require. The irony, I have been told, is that it is our very disconnection from the Fade that allows the Tranquil to work with Lyrium in this manner. A true mage could not do so safely, as raw Lyrium is fatally potent to all but Tranquil and dwarves."

"This is a rune of fortune," Wynne says, gesturing with the stone in her hand. "It is one of the rarest, and Aenid is one of the few Tranquil in Thedas skilled enough to craft its kind."

"Runes can be made to exist which hold the power of the elements," Aenid says. "These are the most common, and even the dwarves craft and sell these. Other runes may increase one's abilities, such as strength, or speed, or intellect, but may only enhance attributes which one already possesses. These are made only by Tranquil. Of course, the more powerful the rune, the more difficult it is to craft, and the more magic it requires, and the more expensive it becomes. True power comes with a price, as we all know." He inclines his head toward the rune of fortune. "This one will grant you luck, if you believe such a thing exists."

"Do you?" I ask, surprised by his description.

"No," Aenid answers. "But I have determined there is evidence in life of fate. I was once told, however, that to argue the difference between good luck and a kind fate is a matter of semantics."

"I told you that, didn't I?" Wynne asks softly.

He nods. "Long ago."

Wynne swallows hard and her face goes slack for a moment. Then she inhales one long breath, straightens her shoulders, and turns back toward me.

"Take this, young man," she says, holding out the rune of fortune. "Consider it an apology for my misjudgment. I – I knew Aenid, before he – before he was made Tranquil. I think he would have wanted you to have it."

"Even as I am now, I want you to have it," Aenid says. Though his manner remains unchanged, seems to me this is the most meaningful statement he's made since we met. It also seems that he's speaking more to Wynne than to me. "If it will assist the Grey Wardens in their mission, I can think of few worthier purposes."

Whatever history there is between Aenid and Wynne, it permeates our every word and gesture. I can sense Wynne's quiet sadness, and when I look at Aenid, I am reminded of an old man searching for a memory he cannot quite recall, or trying to form a word that flirts just at the tip of his tongue.

Only an utter ass would refuse their gift, though I've no idea what to do with this trinket.

I bow slightly, taking the rune in both hands.

As it slips from Wynne's fingers into my palms, the green symbols flare again. I feel a cool sensation washing across my skin. Shivers run up my forearms. There is magic in the rune, as surely as there is magic in the pendant that hangs around my neck, or in the air that crackles around those meditating nearby.

 _Thank you_ doesn't seem like acknowledgment enough, but I say it anyway.

"You are welcome," Aenid replies, "but it is not finished. I can use the rune to enchant an item of your choosing. Your sword, perhaps?"

Over the last few hours, wandering the camp, the scabbard's leather strap has settled onto my shoulder, and my body has adapted to the weight. So much so, in fact, that I'd forgotten I'm carrying a sword at all. I actually glance over my shoulder to see the pommel of my family's blade.

Mistaking my gesture for reluctance, Aenid begins to explain that he could enchant a different weapon, if I prefer, or armor, or certain articles of clothing. Before he can explain the merits of each option, however, a shout rings out from across the yard, followed by another.

A man is yelling angrily, and though I cannot make out the words, I can see the source. A slender, red-faced man wearing dark-colored robes is practically chasing Alistair out of the tent that Ser Mason took us to first.

The mages at the center of the encampment remain unperturbed, but every other head has turned to watch the confrontation.

"That's your companion, isn't it?" Wynne asks.

"Yes," I admit. "I'm not sure…"

"And that's Uldred," she says, pointing at the red-faced man. She sounds worried. "He's the other Senior Enchanter in camp. He can be a bit… _testy._ Perhaps we should walk that way?"

Ser Mason has already started toward the commotion.

"If you are needed elsewhere," Aenid says, unperturbed, "you may of course return at your convenience. Bring the rune, and item of your choosing, and I shall complete the enchantment."

"Thank you," I repeat, and then jog to catch up to Wynne.

We cross the yard, coming closer to the mages in its center than I would have dared on my own. Again, they seem not to notice.

From the corner of my eyes, I notice a few of the Templars have left their posts, drifting toward the Alistair and Uldred. Ser Mason holds one arm straight above his head. The Templars stop their advance, but begin to fan out, forming a perimeter around the argument.

Ser Mason says something to Wynne, too quiet for me to hear. She nods.

Alistair, for his part, is still backpedaling. He's wearing heavier armor than he did on our journey – plate mail over dark leather. He carries a helmet under one arm, and has his other hand up, palm out, a placating gesture that is undermined completely by his ingratiating smirk.

"Has your Order not asked enough already?" Uldred snaps. "Now you insult us in the same breath?"

"Insult you? _Me?_ " Alistair echoes, feigning shock. " _I_ simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, ser mage. _She_ desires your presence, not I."

"Uldred!" Wynne calls out.

We're within a few paces now, but Uldred pays her no attention.

"What Her Reverence _desires_ is of no concern to me! I am busy enough helping you Wardens, and under the King's order, I might add! I'll not be summoned like a schoolboy!"

Alistair has stopped his retreat, and is now nose-to-nose with the enraged senior enchanter.

"Oh, _well then_ , I'm _so_ sorry. Should I have asked her to write a note?"

Uldred spits, barely missing Alistair's boot. "What you _should_ have told her is that I'll not be harassed in this manner. She can bloody well leave us all well-enough alone! You've done nothing but waste my time since –"

"Oh, yes!" Alistair interrupts. " _I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering you a message."

He rolls his eyes theatrically, further infuriating the Senior Enchanter.

"I – you – " Uldred's hands, already clenched into fists, go white at the knuckles.

To my right, the Templars are restless. Every hand is on a sword's hilt now, and all hold their shields at the ready. They're watching Ser Mason, waiting for a signal.

"Uldred!" Wynne snaps, louder.

And this time he blinks, turns to face her. In one quick glance he takes in the semicircle of Templars, and the color drains from his cheeks. Something hateful flashes in his eyes, but he inhales a long breath and straightens. With effort, he relaxes his hands.

"Your glibness does you no credit," he tells Alistair, and turns away.

Ser Mason gestures, and the Templar formation melts, the individual knights returning to their posts.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well," Alistair calls out. Apparently he's not willing to give up the last word. "I was even going to name one of my children after you… The _grumpy_ one, obviously!"

Uldred stiffens, but Wynne touches his shoulder and whispers something. He nods, and continues on to the tent from which he and Alistair emerged. Wynne follows, but pauses at its entrance, turning to look at Alistair and I, now standing side-by-side.

"We will, of course, respond to the Revered Mother's invitation," she says.

Though he didn't blanch before Uldred's rage, Alistair seems to shrink a little as Wynne's reproachful gaze rests on him for a moment longer than is quite polite.

Then she smiles briefly at me. "Take care, Liam of Highever. I wish you luck in the task before you."

With that, before I can answer, she disappears into the tent, following Uldred.

Beside me, Alistair sighs heavily.

"You know," he remarks, "one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

"Funny," I say, not the least bit amused. "That woman, Wynne? She was saying more or less the same thing. About how _some_ people forget we're all on the same side."

"Hey," Alistair says, making a face, "he started it! But, have it your way, I'll just let him walk all over me next time. We should treat it like a party: we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about, I suppose. What brings you here, anyway?" he asks. "Not another errand for me to run, I hope? No more mages to pester?"

"No."

"Well, that's something, at least. Less being yelled at for me – though the day is still young!"

"Do you have a problem with mages?"

Alistair shakes his head ruefully. "More like they have a problem with me. And since I prefer to avoid situations that might lead to me being turned into a toad at any given minute, _I_ try to steer clear of them."

"So, what, you just make fun of anything you're scared of, and hope that won't piss them off more?"

He chuckles. "Something like that, I'm afraid. I'm not… the _best_ under pressure. I mean, with people. In a fight, I'm fine, but with all that talking business? I'm pretty rubbish."

Behind me, Knight-Lieutenant Mason clears his throat, and we turn to face him. His helmet is off, held under one arm. His face is honest and stern, his eyes troubled."

"Whatever your secrets may be," he tells me, "I respect the Wardens. What the Senior Enchanter told you is true – there was one mage who escaped, about a month past. He was an apprentice, not yet having come to his… to his time of testing. He was not especially talented, I am told. Yet he engaged in an elaborate escape attempt, killed two of my men, then vanished from under the noses of both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander. We suspect blood magic, but, when last I had news, have been completely unable to track him."

"He destroyed his phylactery, then?" Alistair asks.

Mason glances at him in irritation, but nods. "Yes, in fact, he did."

"He must've had help," Alistair says.

"What's a phylactery?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter," says the Knight-Lieutenant firmly, a statement that I think is intended more for Alistair than for me. "And, yes, he had help from within the Circle – two other apprentices. But those parties were caught and held to account. We are more concerned about help he may have had outside the Circle." He sighs. "I've told you more than I should, but nothing you couldn't have guessed, thanks to Wynne. I doubt it is connected to the attack you report, but in times like these… who can tell?"

"Thank you," I say, and mean it.

"Don't mention it," Ser Mason says, dryly. "Now, if you've both concluded your business, you should move on. There's been more excitement than we like at the best of times, and especially while that lot are in their trance." He nods toward the center of the yard, where, as far as I can tell, still not one of the mages has noticed anything amiss.

"Of course," Alistair says. "Sorry about that."

Ser Mason snorts. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? You always did like to prod at them."

"Well, not _just_ the mages," Alistair says, falling into step beside the Templar.

"No, you're right, I suppose. You gave everyone hell, not just the mages. It's a poor quality in a knight, you know. Probably for the best that the Wardens took you when they did. Still, you could always make us laugh."

"Really?" Alistair looks genuinely surprised.

"Of course! We couldn't let on, of course – it would've sent the wrong message – but a number of us were quite fond of you."

"Well, you did a good job covering it up," Alistair says, rather bitterly. "What with the beatings and all, I'd say you hid it quite well, in fact."

Ser Mason shrugs, unconcerned. "You can feel sorry for yourself if you like, but you probably got away with far more than you should have. And now you've moved on, which is just as well. You'd have made a shoddy Templar, I fear, but the Grey seems to suit you. All is as the Maker wills it."

…

 **Outside the encampment,** I make a more detailed report about the battle at Highever. Though Ser Mason overheard most of my conversation with Wynne and Aenid, he asks a few perfunctory questions. This time, I don't try to conceal the role the mages played in the battle – though I still withhold Arl Howe's involvement, and that of the Amaranthine troops.

To my telling, the forces that sacked Highever could be bandits or Wilders, but there is not a whiff of politics to be found. At this point, I'm really not even sure why I hold back. What harm is there in laying bare this truth? What advantage do I gain by keeping this secret?

Whatever the cause of my caution, Ser Mason seems keenly uninterested. He jots a few brief notes, then begins nodding a bit too fast. Before I'm quite finished with my account, he cuts in to assure me he'll make a full report to the relevant authorities. Whatever that means.

This formality accomplished, Ser Mason turns quickly back to Alistair. "What _really_ happened back there?" he asks, gesturing back toward the encampment. "With Uldred? We feared he was about to strike you."

Alistair waves it off. "I'm sure you've heard, but from what I understand, the Revered Mother didn't want to invite the Circle at all. The king insisted, and she doesn't like it one bit."

"I can't say that I blame her. This many mages, this close to so much chaos…" Ser Mason shakes his head and lowers his voice. "If even half of them turned on us, it'd be a massacre. And Uldred…he worries me. He's a Libertarian, you know."

Alistair shrugs uncomfortably. "I acted the ass more than him, now that I think of it."

"How do you mean?"

"Well… if you think about it, best guess is that Her Reverence just wanted to remind someone over here how unwelcome they all are. And she specifically asked Duncan to send me, knowing full well I was a Templar. I'm sure she meant it as an insult, and Uldred picked right up on that, and got a bit snippy, but what was I supposed to do, refuse a request from Her Reverance?"

"I'm sure you were a model of patience," Ser Mason says dryly. "All the same, a Senior Enchanter ought to mind his place. Uldred's been increasingly erratic since… well, it doesn't matter. But you can rest assured, the Knight Commander will hear of his behavior. I'll make a report as soon as we return to Kinloch Hold."

"That's really not necessary."

"Not to _you_ , perhaps," Ser Mason replies, "but I would be neglecting my duty if I did not. Perhaps you have forgotten, but, much like your new Order, the Templars exist to preserve the safety of all."

"Ah, yes, of course. I must have forgotten, somehow."

Though Alistair doesn't _actually_ roll his eyes this time, he might as well.

"We'll be on our way," I interrupt.

I wonder if Alistair plans to antagonize everyone in the entire camp, or just here on the western outcropping.

"Then go in the Maker's light," says the Knight Lieutenant. To his credit, he manages to sound at least half-sincere.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: The Fraternity of Enchanters**

 _Another aspect of Circle Life is the fraternities. When a mage becomes an enchanter, he may ally himself with one of several organizations called fraternities. These are cliques, essentially, that cross Circle boundaries, into which mages of common interests and goals can bond themselves. The goal, ostensibly, is to ensure that their voice is heard within the College of Magi in Cumberland, though in my experience, such associations are more often of a social nature than a political one. All people, after all, wish to know some as friends, and others as rivals. This is mere sociology._

 _All questions of legitimacy aside, below I have listed the largest of the fraternities, and the philosophies to which they hew:_

 _There are the Loyalists, who advocate loyalty and obedience to the Chantry; the Aequitarians, who advocate temperance and follow a distinct code of conduct which they believe all mages should hold themselves to; the Libertarians, a growing fraternity, publicly maintaining greater power for the Circles but, I am told, privately advocating for a complete split from the Chantry – quite a dangerous opinion, as you may imagine; the Isolationists, quite a small group, which advocates withdrawing to remove territories to avoid conflicts with the general populace; and lastly, the Lucrosians, another small Fraternity, who maintain that the Circle must do what is profitable first and foremost, prioritizing the accumulation of wealth above all else, and the gaining of political influence a close second._

 _Among these groups, the Loyalists and the Libertarians are by far the most vocally political. Their voices often drive the debates at the College of Magi, and their arguments are the most heated._

 _For several centuries, an alliance between the Loyalists and the Aequitarians has prevented the Libertarians from gaining much headway. There are, however, those who believe the Aequitarians may one day throw their support in with the Libertarians. If this happens, many – myself included – believe that a civil war could break out between the Circles, or, worse still, a schism between the Circles and the Chantry itself._

Excerpted from _The Circle of Magi: A History_

by First Enchanter Josephus


	8. One Good Thing About the Blight

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 _The One Good Thing about the Blight_

 **As soon as we're out of Ser Mason's earshot,** I turn toward Alistair. "I look forward to traveling with you, but –"

"You do? Well, _that's_ a switch."

Irritated at his interruption, I stop walking and pivot to face him. I'm tempted to throw my hands up in the air, but I'm conscious that any of the Templars might be watching.

"What the hell was all that?" I demand.

He shrugs with exaggerated innocence. "It's like I said – the Blight has a way of bringing people together. It's kind of wonderful, don't you think?"

Despite all his smirking and eye-rolling, like he's above all this pettiness, I think it's telling that Alistair won't meet my eyes. The longer I stare, the more uncomfortable he becomes. The grin slowly fades, and he kicks at dust. Not for the first time, I'm reminded that he's actually younger than me. Actually, he reminds me more than a little of Oren, caught red-handed with cookie crumbs on his tunic before dinner.

In the face of such overt bashfulness, it's tough to remain frustrated.

"You're a very strange man," I observe, relenting.

He chuckles, relaxing his shoulders. "You're not the first to say so. I'm really not trying to antagonize anyone, you know." He begins to walk again, and I fall back into step. "Uldred started going on about injustices and inconveniences just about before I could say 'How do you do.' I may not be a Templar anymore, but I'm not about to… Oh, never mind. It's more than we've got time for. And anyhow, now that I've delivered my message – or _whatever_ it is that happened back there – I'm supposed to be finding you and Daveth. Duncan wants you back at the camp right away."

"I thought we had until dusk?"

"So did I, but something's changed. Don't ask what. Nobody tells me anything. You haven't seen Daveth, though, have you?"

"Actually, he was with me when we got here, but…" I trail off, thinking of Daveth's unsettled reaction to the Tranquil. I decide it's nothing Alistair needs to know about. "But I lost track of him. I got the impression he was leaving, maybe a quarter of an hour ago?"

"Naturally." Alistair sighs. "Duncan will be thrilled."

"He'll have to understand, I'd think. He gave us until dusk, and it's too big a camp to expect you to find one man."

"I'm sure he will. He's actually – well, he's actually very understanding." Alistair smiles sheepishly. "I just hate to let him down. He's done…well, he's done a lot for you me, you know?"

I'm not sure I do, but I nod. "You speak very fondly of him."

"Yes, well…he's given me reason to. If you ask me, he's done the best he can with what little he has. That includes me, I guess. I spent years in the Chantry, more or less hopelessly resigned to my fate. Duncan was the first person who card what _I_ wanted. He risked a lot of trouble with the Grand Cleric, just to help _me._ There was nothing in it for him, but he put his neck on the line just the same."

"He must have seen something in you."

"Or maybe," Alistair replies, frowning, "he just happened to be a good man."

Granted, I've barely known Duncan for two weeks – but so far, nothing would lead me to believe he'd accept a conscript on mere charity. If he helped Alistair, I'll wager there's a reason.

"Don't sell yourself short," I say. "I've seen you drill, remember? And I'm sure having a Templar in the ranks comes with a few advantages."

Alistair purses his lips like he's about to argue, but seems to think better of it. "I've only been with the Order a little more than a year," he says, "but it's already a thousand times better than the Chantry. I owe Duncan a lot. But what about you? I gather you're not convinced?"

I give myself a few steps to consider before answering. "Honestly, I can't say I care much for him, but…"

"I knew it," he interrupts. "Well, you're entitled to your opinion, I suppose."

" _But_ ," I repeat. "He seems like a kind man, when he can be, and firm when necessary. And I owe him. He saved me, and Oren, and he did far more for my family than anyone could have asked."

After a moment, Alistair nods. "Fair enough."

We fall into a brief silence. I guess we're heading to the Warden's camp, but before I can ask, or inquire further about Alistair's history with Duncan, I spot Daveth – and stop in my tracks, promptly forgetting whatever it was I was about to say.

"What is it?" Alistair asks.

We're about halfway through the buffer of no-man's land that separates the mages from the army, having just crested a ridge that effectively hides the Circle tents. The stockades are barely visible on our left. Ahead, the path still has several hundred yards to wind between ruins and brambles before we'll be back in camp. This is as private a place, in other words, as one is likely to find without leaving Ostagar entirely – a fact of which Daveth seems to have taken due advantage.

He is half-hidden between a stand of trees and a boulder, and I only spot him because the young woman in his arms is wearing Templar colors. Well, she's not wearing them the way she probably was a few minutes ago, but the crimson and gold draw the eye all the same. Her back is bare, her robes hanging loose from her elbows, and she's generously returning Daveth's kisses. Her hands are in his hair, and his seem to be busy elsewhere.

Before I can stammer some excuse to Alistair – something, anything to get us moving again – Daveth sees me seeing him, and begins to laugh.

The woman turns, following Daveth's gaze, exposing round breasts and a pretty face. As soon as she realizes what's going on, she flushes bright red and jumps away from Daveth. She ducks to hide her face as she pulls her tunic back onto her shoulders. Then she darts past him, escaping further down the slope and behind another stand of trees, fastening buttons and pulling her sash and belt tight around her waist as she goes.

Daveth, too, has to tug his trousers back into place and fiddle with his buckles, though he doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed. Once he's finished rearranging himself, he starts up the hill, grinning broadly.

"You lot must have it in for me," he calls out. "You've just robbed me of maybe the last good thing in this shitty little place!"

Alistair, a bit pink in the cheeks himself, is glancing back and forth between me and Daveth, his brows knit. "What… what's going on?"

"Surely you can work that out yourself, mate." He grimaces, but I think he's trying to hide a smile. "I was told you Wardens don't take no chastity vows, right?"

"Uh…no," Alistair says. "No, not that they've told me."

"Well, that's good, then," he says sorrowfully. He's reached us now, and begins to check the items on his belt, adjusting his short sword and knife. "Hate to be kicked out before I was joined up. She was worth it, though, if it came down to it."

"I'm so sorry!" I exclaim, as soon as I trust myself to speak. Though I'm fighting back laughter, I really mean what I said. "I didn't mean to butt in, I just -"

"Don't you worry on it," he interrupts, waving me off. "My fault for not taking my lady a little further from this damn road. Had rotten luck all day, so I got a little eager, maybe. Still, some's better than none, eh? Her loss more than mine, of course..."

I can't help laughing again.

"What?" he grumbles, but he's stifling a grin.

"So much for being an extra set of eyes for me."

"Hey! You can't blame a bloke if his eye wanders a bit, can you? Especially a pretty little thing like her. Just the same, you done gone and hurt my feelings. You don't think I'd forget to poke around a bit, do you?"

"From what I saw, you did plenty of _poking_ around," says Alistair, surprising Daveth and I both – and maybe himself.

"Oh, yes," Daveth says, once he's stopped laughing. "Yes, I did at that. Pretty little thing she was, like I said…and _chatty_ , too." He winks, clearly enjoying himself. "Well, she tells me, we weren't like to get anything from that lieutenant anyhow. He don't tell nobody nothing, she said."

"She was right about that," I say.

"So, see, she tells me they're all on high alert, the whole lot of them – the Templars, right? Not just here, but back at their big tower. She don't know much, of course, but she tells me she's been hearing rumors, see, that some of the mages are doing heresy. They think it's this one fraternization, but they got no proof yet, or none she's heard."

Now I'm confused. "Fraternization?"

"I think you mean _Fraternity,_ " Alistair says.

"Right. What'd I say?"

"Fraternization," Alistair says. "Which is what you were doing with that Templar. But I think you _meant_ fraternity. A lot of mages belong to different fraternities. They're like – like clubs, I guess – and each one has its own views on magic and religion and all that. It's mostly philosophical, from what I understand, but there's politics, too. Each fraternity can make recommendation to the College of Enchanters, and the College gets to make recommendation to –"

"Right," Daveth interrupts, glazing over. "Fraterni-tates, or whatever you said. She says one of _those_ is doing heresy, and the head Templar didn't want any of them mages leaving at all. Neither did the head mage, I heard. Had to be ordered by the king, apparently, and no one was happy about it."

"Did she say anything about any escapes?"

"No." Daveth grins. "About then, we got…distracted, I'm afraid."

I shake my head, grinning too. "Maybe you were right," I tell Alistair.

"How do you mean?"

"The Blight. Apparently it really _does_ bring people together."

…

 **Walking back from the Circle encampment,** I listen as Alistair and Daveth continue to trade barbs and jests. Though Daveth is older by nearly a decade, and Alistair is unquestionably our senior within the Order, they're well matched. Alistair, I'm learning, possesses a sharply self-deprecating sense of humor, which nicely complements Daveth's deadpan self-aggrandizement. Their interplay makes me laugh – really laugh – the way I haven't in weeks.

I don't have much to add, but when I do chip in, it's willingly – not the façade I fought to maintain on the journey, or even an hour ago, when I tried to make small talk with Daveth.

It can't last, of course. Soon enough, we're in sight of the king's tents. We turn aside, Alistair leading us up a path I hadn't noticed before, threading along between pine trees as we climb a slight ridge. I can smell kennels and hear the bark of a dozen Mabari, so I know we're close to the Wardens' camp. My camp, I suppose.

The trail levels off and widens, and we're greeted by a dozen well-armed men, strolling toward us. They're not Wardens – they wear the sigil of Gwaren, the teyrnir of Loghain Mac Tir – but they are not like the other soldiers I've seen, either. Their armor is well-kept and uniform, a combination of chain male and metal plates, and their faces are stern, betraying none of the skittishness I've seen in so many others. The weapons on their backs and hips are of a quality, and unlike the armor, each is unique to its owner.

They're following a man I've never seen, but recognize immediately. He is tall, with black hair and angular features, and his eyes are some of the sharpest I've ever met. He wears heavy armor, shined so bright I can see my own warped reflection between jagged scratches, the telltale signs of battles survived. A tiny, ornate blue shield, bearing a golden lion, is pinned to one pauldron, a lone splash of color on an otherwise rugged, warlike figure.

"Wardens," the man says, nodding his head to us. He raises a gloved hand, and the soldiers behind him halt immediately.

Alistair steps forward, and I can tell he's nervous. "My Lord Teyrn, I am -"

"Oh, I know who you are, Alistair of Redcliffe," he says, interrupting coldly. "I know _exactly_ who you are."

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir stares intently at Alistair until the young Warden looks away, shifting his shoulders like he wants to collapse in on himself.

Then the Teyrn turns to me. "And you must be Duncan's newest Warden."

He's deliberately ignoring Daveth.

I nod slowly, fighting against the paralysis his gaze commands. Teyrn Loghain's voice is calm, his face neutral – but his eyes burn with intelligence and intensity. This is not a man one lies to, or, I think, stands against.

"Yes," I say. "But I'm not a Grey Warden yet."

"I'm well aware," he says. "You're Bryce's son. I never forget a face, and you have your father's."

"I am," I say, and then remember that I am speaking not only to a legend, but to a Teyrn, and that he is due certain respects. I cross my arms and bow. "My name is Liam Cousland, my lord. I am at your service."

"You owe me no service. Rise."

When I do, I find he is still staring at me. The lines around his eyes tighten, but the eyes themselves go soft. Behind the intensity, I think, there is sadness, as well, and weariness.

"The king told me of your loss," he says. "I am truly sorry. Your father was a great man."

"Thank you, my lord."

"The king also told me of his promise. I'm certain he has every intention of following it through. You impressed him, you know."

This comes as a surprise. "Then I am honored."

Loghain chuckles humorlessly. "You wouldn't be, if you knew him. His Majesty is easily impressed by anything to do with you Wardens. We all respect your Order, but his fascination goes beyond the ordinary. But I am being unkind. He spoke of more than just your affiliations when he told me about you. He believes you have inherited your father's many gifts."

What on earth would've led Cailan to this conclusion, after our brief encounter, I've no idea. I'm also not sure how to respond. I choose my words carefully. "It is difficult to imagine a higher compliment."

This seems to impress Teyrn Loghain, who nods incrementally. "Are you aware that it was Cailan's father who brought the Wardens back to Ferelden?"

"I've heard that, yes."

Alistair has stepped back and to the side. He's studying his shoes beside Daveth, who's watching this exchange with an uncharacteristically worried expression. The soldiers from Gwaren are watching, too, expressionless. This conversation is entirely between the Teyrn and I; he's excluded or ignored everyone else.

"Maric respected the Grey Wardens," Loghain tells me. "They have an honored place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would've understood that it takes more than legends to win a battle. That's not an argument I'll repeat here, though I understand it's one you've heard already, outside the king's tents."

Word travels fast, apparently, if the Teyrn knows what was said when I spoke to Ser Maraigne.

Again, I have to pause to consider my answer. What the Teyrn's purpose is, I cannot guess, but he is not questioning a recruit about these matters without reason. It's obvious there is more being said here than I'm hearing, even when the words are my own.

"What I heard from Ser Maraigne," I say slowly, "and what I've heard from all those I've spoken to today, is that we will look to you for our strategy, not to the power of legends. King Maric trusted your counsel in battle, and, as you said, King Cailan is Maric's son. If what my father said if your counsel is true, then we will be in good hands when battle is joined."

Again, the Teyrn chuckles. "Spoken like a true diplomat," he says, inclining his head. "Cailan is Maric's son, that much is true, and more than that, he is the leader of my beloved Ferelden. But he is also a very young man. I try to keep that in mind. As should you. No matter what counsel he receives from me, or from your commander, or from any other, Cailan will not be dissuaded from a grand charge, surrounded by Wardens. You should know as well as any what this may cost you. You'll be riding into the thick of battle with the rest of your fellows, will you not?"

"I don't know," I say, quite honestly.

"If Cailan has his way, you _will_. What say you that?"

"Whatever my part is," I say slowly, "I will do it. But I do not set myself up as anyone's hope."

The Teyrn makes a noise like a growl in the back of his throat. "Then you have inherited your father's wisdom, I can see that." The way he says it, I can't tell if it's a compliment. "Mark my words, young man – whether you court his hope or not, the King has placed it in your lap all the same. Pray that our king proves amenable to wisdom, if you're the praying sort."

"And if I'm not?"

For the first time, the Teyrn smiles – a hard, knowing smile.

"Then brace yourself, boy. Battle's coming. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've preparations to make."

The Teyrn gestures, and the soldiers begin to walk again, though he remains still. As they pass by, Loghain looks me in the eye once more.

"Good luck," he says, "and well met. You would do your father proud."

Then he turns and follows his men.

…

" **He didn't seem sure, is all I mean,"** Daveth says, as we walk into what must once have been a small amphitheater. There are marble columns all around, and broken steps rise up between tiers of mossy stone. The roof and walls, however, are long lost to time, leaving an eerie, empty skeleton of formality.

"Well, I wouldn't read too much into it," Alistair replies. His tone is glib, but he sounds shaken. "From what I've heard, he's almost always Ser Gloom and Doom."

"He didn't seem to like you much," I say, glancing at Alistair.

"You noticed that, did you?"

"Yeah, couldn't not," Daveth says. "What's that all about anyhow?"

"Hmm. Well…" The former Templar trails off, his eyes going off to somewhere else for just a moment. Then his lopsided grin is back. "Well, we can't all be friend, can we? Not even with the Blight to bring us together!"

There's something there – something in Teyrn Loghain's glare, and Alistair's far away expression just now – but whatever it is, Alistair seems less than eager to explain, and I've got no reason to pry. Besides, I've enough trouble of my own with Ferelden's politics, if I'm to get to the bottom of the traitor Howe and his coven of apostates.

So I keep walking, and let myself be lulled again as Daveth begins to laugh at Alistair's return to the earlier jest about the Blight's power to bring people together. They're trading good-natured barbs again, and soon enough they've got me laughing with them.

And so we walk, all three of us, back toward the camp, laughing at jokes that probably aren't half so funny as we think. And for a moment, we could almost be three ordinary young men.

It's only a moment – and an illusion, at that – but it's a blessing, all the same.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: Sexuality in Thedas**

 _What I find most interesting is that, despite the lack of open discussion on matters of human sexuality, there is commonality to be found on the subject in all Andrastian lands. Typically, one's sexual habits are considered natural and separate from matters of procreation, and only among the nobility, where procreation involves issues of inheritance and the union of powerful families, is it considered of vital importance. Yet, even there, a noble who has done their duty to the family might be allowed to pursue their own sexual interests without raising eyebrows._

 _The view on indulging lusts with a member of the same gender varies from land to land. In Orlais, it is considered a quirk of character and nothing more. In Ferelden, it is in some circles considered a matter of scandal if done indiscreetly, but otherwise nothing noteworthy. In Tevinter, however, it is considered a selfish and deviant behavior when the parties are both nobles, but actively encouraged with favored slaves. Nowhere, however, is it forbidden._

 _Generally, in fact, sex of any kind is only considered worthy of judgment when taken to excess, or performed in the public eye, or pursued to the detriment of one's duties. Again, the exception seems to be in Tevinter, where sexuality is more closely tied to one's social class. It is interesting to consider that the Andrastian culture which places the most lenient restrictions on the practice of magic, if in fact Tevinter can be said to restrict magical practice at all, also places the greatest restriction on the practice of sex. A thesis for another time._

Excerpted from _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_

by Brother Genitivi, a Chantry Scholar


	9. Not the Time for Prudence

**CHAPTER EIGHT:** _Not the Time for Prudence_

 **Madra sees me first.** It's no surprise, really. While I've been off tromping around half of Ostagar, staring at monsters and watching Daveth try to get lucky, she's been stuck with strangers. And while I've no doubt she behaved herself, there's also no doubting she's missed me

Before we've even reached the Warden encampment, she bursts from between a pair of shrubs, her legs pumping and her head down as she rockets toward me. She's barking happily, coming at a full gallop. The younger Warden – Desmond, the one Alistair embraced when we arrived – jogs after her, throwing his hands up helplessly and laughing.

"There's my girl!" I cry, and drop to my knees, arms wide.

"She's been looking for you since you left!" Desmond calls out, just as Madra hits me in the chest.

Her tongue swipes at my cheeks over and over, until she's almost knocked me to the dust. Finally, laughing myself, I stand and we have to run together to catch the others.

Alistair and Daveth are following Desmond down an uneven slope, into what looks like an ancient amphitheater. Here and there, worn stone is visible beneath the dirt, and I realize we're climbing down a staircase, between larger outcroppings that must have been benches.

Columns stand at regular intervals between the benches, interspersed with statues not unlike those on the bridge. Though much of the detail has faded, I can see winding patterns etched onto the columns, hints of figures acting out scenes from long-lost stories. The statues, too, are crumbling, moss-covered, and time-worn, and yet unquestionably the work of a master artist. Each depicts different woman, all solemn-faced, all warriors armed with shields and swords, all staring down at the amphitheater's central floor.

Whether this was a theater or a house of government, or perhaps the site of gladiator games, I can't guess. Whatever purpose it served, however, was clearly one of great importance. Even now, suffering the decay of centuries abandoned, there is an unmistakable majesty to this place.

Overhead, the clouds are turning a darker shade of purple. Here, away from the bulk of the army, I can hear the familiar, chirping song of crickets. It must be nearing dusk.

Below, the Wardens have pitched their tents in a rough circle. A great bonfire roars in the center, not unlike the one at the mage encampment, though of course there is no one meditating here. Instead, I can see about twenty people, most of them men, most of the human, standing or sitting in small knots. Some are cooking, others sharpening swords or cleaning equipment. A few are just talking. Others still are on the far side of the bonfire, watching as Korith and Nix spar. Duncan is among the onlookers, but turns to acknowledge our arrival with a nod.

Once we're past the ring of tents, the three of us come to a halt. Daveth and Alistair begin to look around, awkwardly searching for something to do while Duncan continues to observe the swordplay. Me, I've got my hands full with Madra, who is still bouncing frantically, her stub of a tail slashing back and forth.

I try to get her to calm down down and let me scratch between her ears. Head scratches are easily one of her favorite treats, so you'd think she might willingly sit still now and then. But no – it's always a battle of wills. Even now, as she finally sets herself down in the dirt and lets me rub the top of her skull, her legs are trembling, ready to bounce back up for a romp or an attack or whatever the hell else she thinks is worth doing.

Once she gives in, though, all it takes is about five seconds of scratches and she's practically melting. Her head tilts back and her tongue lolls out, and soon enough she's scooting herself closer and closer, until she's pressing against my knees so hard I'm almost knocked off balance. This has become our signal that it's time for me to get on her level, nose to nose, and ruffle both ears, which I'm more than happy to do.

Madra whuffs contentedly, then swipes my face with a foul-smelling kiss.

What I'd do without her, I have no idea.

"I see you've already been welcome back," Duncan says, smiling.

He's is standing a few paces away, smiling. He's brought Jory with him, and another companion too: a muscular, long-haired warrior whose face looks oddly familiar. It takes a moment before I place him as the Ash Warrior who waved to us on our way into camp this morning. He's wearing a tunic and leather armor now, in addition to the kilt and war paint from earlier, and doesn't appear quite as drunk.

"Liam, Daveth. Alistair. Thank you all for returning so promptly. I hope my summons did not unduly inconvenience you, especially after so long a journey, but I find myself with no alternative. After we parted, I had occasion to meet with King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. Their scouts report the horde is on the move. We anticipate joining battle much sooner than expected, certainly before the week is out. This necessitates that we conduct the Joining ritual as soon as possible. Were the mages receptive to our request, Alistair?"

"Receptive isn't _exactly_ the word I'd use. They'll make themselves available, but I get the feeling there'll be a quite a lot of weeping and teeth-gnashing."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. They saw right through the Revered Mother, choosing me to carry the request. One of the Senior Enchanters tried to set my eyebrows on fire, in fact."

"And yet, even knowing her intent, you didn't refuse her when she asked you to serve as her messenger. I dare say you may have enjoyed yourself?"

"Who, me?" Alistair shrugs theatrically. "What can I say? She ambushed me. The way that woman wields guilt, they should stick her in the army."

"Not the worst idea I've heard today," Duncan allows. "All the same, I had hoped you might find it in yourself to approach the mages with some delicacy. You know better than most that we cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. That includes the Circle."

"I was polite as you please," Alistair retorts, though he sounds sheepish. "I didn't even smirk! Believe it or not, I don't make a habit of antagonizing people who could turn me into a frog."

"What _is_ it with him and being turned into a frog?" Daveth mutters.

"Be that as it may," Duncan says. "People fear what they do not understand, and few in the army understand us any better than they understand magic. If we permit bad blood to fester with our allies, who knows what might happen, or who might be blamed. We cannot risk losing the mage's support, not on the eve of battle. You of all people should know the power they possess."

"The power is exactly why I get nervous when one of them starts shaking his finger in my face," Alistair says. "But I do see your point, of course. Liam said more or less the same thing."

"Did he really?" Duncan looks to me for confirmation.

Reluctantly, I nod. I've no wish to upstage Alistair. Then again, he's the one who dragged me into this.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Duncan says. "Tell me, have you had any luck finding your brother?"

I shake my head. "His scouting party left this morning. They're not expected back for several days."

"I'm sorry." Duncan sounds sincere. "I will pray that you two meet again, and soon. For now, it is the task at hand that demands attention. You three will have preparations to make before the Joining, preparations I need to discuss with Alistair. Privately. It will take only a few minutes, so I will ask each of you to remain nearby. And you, Liam – I'd like you to speak with another of our allies."

Duncan gestures to the Ash Warrior, who until now has stood in implacable silence. Now, he steps forward, extending a muscular arm toward me. Guessing I'm meant to shake his hand, I reach forward.

I'm surprised when he grabs me above the wrist instead of by the hand. I follow suit, and try to squeeze his forearm as hard he squeezes mine, though I doubt I'm successful.

"This is Clayne, captain of the Ash Warriors," Duncan says, gesturing as he makes introductions. "Clayne, this is Liam Cousland – the Mabari you spoke of is his."

"Well met, Son of Cousland," says Clayne, his voice deep and gravelly. His breath is sour, half garlic and half stale beer. "Tell me: what do you know of us?"

"I know your reputation, as warriors and as men of faith."

One side of Clayne's mouth twitches upward, tugging the weathered skin on his cheeks into a sort of squint. I'm guessing it's a smile.

"Our faith is often overstated," he says, "but not our strength. We fight for the causes we deem just, and we look to Andraste to guide us to these causes, but we are not priests. This we do so that we may not be damned, for our path is violence. It is of violence that I wish to speak, if you will listen."

I'm not at all sure where this is going, but Duncan and Alistair have already stepped away, and Jory has disappeared as well. Madra is sitting by my knee, watching Clayne with rapt attention. What else am I going to do, but listen?

"We harness the rage inside us," Clayne continues. "We nurture it and draw it out, so that we cannot fall in battle until our last foe is slain. This discipline has been passed down since Luthias the Dwarfson first harnessed the battle-rage of the dwarves. It is an old tale, and not one we have time for now. For now, I will say only that we have perfected this discipline over the centuries, adapting it fit our own needs, so that we can fight fully beside our hounds, and our hounds beside us. That is our way, as much as the battle rage. I trust my life to my hound, and he trusts his to me."

Clayne watches me closely as he speaks, and then drops his eyes to Madra. Almost everyone looks her way, or lets her lick their hand, but he seems to be _studying_ her, the way a painter studies the sunset, or a general the battle map.

"You have a fine hound," Clayne pronounces. "I saw her when you first set foot in this place, and I knew then. She is from fine stock."

"I've decided to keep her." I smile. "Or she's decided to keep me. I'm not always sure which."

I've used this line countless times. Normally it provokes a chuckle.

Clayne's eyes snap back to me, his face deadly serious.

"You would be a fool otherwise," he says sternly. "A trained Mabari is more dangerous than any sword. Yours is not some city pit, or one of those cretins that sits on an old woman's lap. She is a gift to, you from the Maker himself."

Although I'm a bit taken aback by Clayne's ferocity, I find myself nodding enthusiastically.

"She's saved my life more than once," I say. "And I'd give mine for her, like you said."

This seems to satisfy the Ash Warrior, who nods once. "I believe you. That is why I've come. In the last weeks, my brothers and I have scouted the Wilds extensively, watching the progression of the darkspawn horde. We found and slaughtered many struggles. The hunt was good, but many of our hounds did not survive the blood of our prey. We have mourned greatly for companions lost. I would spare you this."

"I heard one of the army sergeants say – well, they've lost a lot of dogs, too, I guess."

Clayne nods gravely. "The blood of our enemy is poisonous, but it is not always fatal. We learned quickly that the hounds who did not die became immune. Duncan tells me that this is true for humans, too, if the tainted blood infects us. He tells me that even those who survive are eventually driven mad, but that day is not today. Today, we have sought to protect our hounds as best we can. We have consulted our elders, though they are few, and learned of an herbal recipe, passed down since the days of the Fourth Blight, which protects the hounds upon their first exposure to the blood."

He reaches into a pocket on his kilt and produces a small glass bottle with a cork stopper.

"This is my gift to your hound," he says, and holds it out to me. "She will not like the taste, but if you are a worthy master, she will trust your direction."

As I extend my hand to accept Clayne's gift, something on my belt vibrates intensely. Though there is no sound, the feeling reminds me of a bee's buzzing. The movement stops almost as quickly as it began, leaving my skin intensely cold, like that stretch of my belt was momentarily turned to ice.

I'm so startled that I drop my hand to the belt, leaving Clayne still holding the medicine. His eyes narrow, following my movement as my fingers brush the rune of fortune – another gift I've received today, one I had forgotten until now. I draw the stone out of the pouch into which I slipped it back at the Circle encampment. The green sigil is still glowing.

When I look back up, the Ash Warrior's eyes are wide, focused on my movements as I tuck the rune back away.

"That is a powerful omen," Clayne says softly. "On occasion, those we aid choose to honor us with gifts. Many of us wear runes in our armor, or carry them in our weapons. They are powerful aids in battle, but I have only seen this manner of rune twice in my life. You are blessed indeed, Son of Cousland. Now take this, and hear my words."

He places the bottle in my hand. I thank him, but he only nods before continuing to speak.

"This medicine is made from a particular herb, the name of which I do not know. It improves the hound's resistance to the poison in the darkspawn blood, but has no effect on humans. I know not whether it would affect the other races. The herb grows in swamps, of which there are many nearby, and bears a flower that is distinctive: all white, with many petals around a blood-red center. We have found it growing at the edge of ground pools, on the corpses of fallen trees. If you go into the Wilds, you will find it easily enough. If you gather more of the herbs, I will show you how to make more of the medicine."

"I hope not to go there, but if I do..."

Clayne chuckles. "You have much to learn."

It's hard to argue with that, though I wonder what, exactly he means. "If I do," I repeat, "I'll find as many as I can." I hold up the bottle and staring at its contents. Small particles of matter are suspended in the liquid, like dust mites in sunshine. "How long do the effects last?" I ask.

"No more than a day, and you need only give her a few drops on the tongue. We offer the medicine to our hounds whenever we paint them, and will continue to do so until we are certain they have swallowed enough blood to develop an immunity. We have not lost a hound who was given this medicine before battle."

"I'm glad," I say sincerely. "If you don't mind, could I ask – what does the paint mean?"

Clayne stares inscrutably before speaking. "We do not speak of it often, just as we do not teach outsiders our battle rage. But you are a Warden, or soon enough will be, and we may fight side by side in the next days, so I will answer. The paint is called Kaddis, and it is infused with another herb. Hounds use scent to distinguish their allies from their enemies during battle, but our hounds do not fight the way most do. In your army, a few men are trained to command packs of Mabari with commands, and the hounds are used to charge or to flank. We choose fight alongside our hounds, and there are nearly as many Mabari as Ash Warriors. The blood of battle can confuse our hounds, when they are among us, so we paint ourselves with Kaddis, which overpowers the blood. We also paint our hounds, so they will know we are the same."

"Does that – should Madra and I do something similar?"

Clayne snorts. "No. Why would you? She will fight to protect you, and you alone. She does not need to remember a hundred scents, only yours. Even if this were not true, we train our hounds from birth with Kaddis. Yours has received no such training; the herbs would confuse her."

I nod slowly, turning the vial over and over in my hand. "Thank you again, Clayne."

The big man grunts and nods. "Good hunting, Son of Cousland. I will leave you now. There is battle in the air, and much blood to be spilled. I'll not be kept any longer from my preparations."

With that, he turns and stalks away, past the fire. He climbs the ruined, uneven steps of the old amphitheater with long, powerful strides, never looking back. I watch him go, still turning the bottle over and over between my fingers.

Though I don't share Clayne's blood lust, I do envy the simplicity of his calling. Just men and their dogs, searching for a battle worthy of the violence they live to inflict and drinking in the meantime.

Next to me, Madra whines. I glance down, wondering if now is the right time to inflict this medicine on her. It lasts a day, Clayne said. If she only needs a few drops, then this vial contains a few weeks of protection.

All the same, there's no telling when the Blight will end, and no guarantee I'll find the flowers – or even Clayne, for that matter. I slip the vial into the same pocket that contains the Rune of Fortune, and feel the smooth stone. This time, I don't even flinch when it hums against my skin.

I've always been aware of magic, academically – its role in shaping Thedas' history is undeniable, as is its potent influence on today's political and theological struggles. But until the last fortnight, it might as well have been a fairytale. My daily life was bounded entirely within the mundane world, all bread and beer, dust and bones, coin and letters.

And then, in the last fortnight, I've seen a single mage fend off a room of guardsmen, felt the touch of Iona's spirit, stared at the corpse of a monster torn from the pages of Holy scripture, and met a man whose very essence was wiped clean by sorcery. The stone in my pocket, which once would have captured my imagination, now hardly seems noteworthy.

Perhaps it's not so strange, that my conception of reality should change over the same days that have seen my life ripped apart. Perhaps being broken to pieces, pulled inside out, scattered to the wind – perhaps it has opened my eyes. Or perhaps it is simpler even than that. Perhaps the all the rage and misery is a beacon for the otherworldly.

Aenid said something like that, didn't he? He was rendered Tranquil specifically to sunder him from his own emotions, because they attracted demons. So maybe it makes sense. Maybe magic is drawn to human intensity, even when the human isn't a mage.

Or maybe I'm full of shit, and the real reason for all this change is the change itself. Life is chaos, and I've been thrust far outside what I once knew as normal. Is it any shock I've encountered things I can't explain?

I run my fingers over the rune one more time before closing the pocket, smiling bitterly. Full of shit it is, I decide.

…

 **Duncan is approaching again,** from the far side of the bonfire. Alistair is with him, their conference apparently ended. I'm guessing they're ready – finally – to discuss whatever these preparations are that we've heard so much about. Ser Jory has seen them coming, and is jogging to meet us, looking as serious as ever.

I beckon at Daveth, who's sprawled against a moss-covered stone block, his legs stretched out and his hands behind his head. My conversation with Clayne wasn't long enough for him to nod off, but he looks like he's well on the way when he notices me waving at him. He rolls his eyes, stands with some effort, and spits in the dirt before walking over.

In a few moments, we've formed a sort of circle: Alistair and Duncan with their backs to the bonfire, Daveth, Jory and I facing them. In my periphery, I notice many of the other Wardens are gathering silently. Even those who don't come over have stopped what they're doing and stand motionless, watching. Sounds of clanging metal and loud conversation cease almost simultaneously, leaving nothing but the crackle of the fire.

Suddenly, this all seems very somber.

"Thank you for your patience," Duncan tells us. "Now that we are all here, and ready, I'll waste no more time. Tomorrow, before first light, the three of you, with Alistair as your guide, will venture into the Korcari Wilds. There, you will perform a pair of tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit." He holds out three empty glass bottles, each longer and narrower than the one Clayne gave me a few minutes ago.

"Fill those with…darkspawn blood?" Jory blurts.

"Yes. Each must be filled completely, with fresh blood, before you return. Here, take them."

Awkwardly, all three of us step forward at the same time, then pause too long as each of us waits for the other to take the first vial.

After a moment, Daveth takes the first. "Into the Wilds to squeeze blood out of darkspawn, is it?" He chuckles nervously, then puts on an overly-worried face as he looks at Duncan. "Bit dangerous, don't you think?"

"A bit," Duncan agrees. Though his face betrays not even a wisp of a smile, I think he's matching Daveth's gallows humor one-for-one. "Darkspawn aren't known for their willingness to offer up their own blood."

"Right," Daveth says, pursing his lips. "But you'd think you lot could've got some before now, save us the trouble, you know?"

"You are hardly the first recruit to make such a suggestion," Duncan replies dryly. "However, you must each collect your own components. This is as much a part of the Joining as the ritual itself."

"Components?" I repeat, palming my own vial.

"Yes. The blood is key. But so is the experience of facing a darkspawn, and killing it. How else can one learn about his enemy, except by facing it? I can explain more only _after_ you have returned."

Though we've all got our own vials, Jory doesn't join Daveth and I in stepping back. He's still close to Duncan, and I can see his hands have gone pale. He says something that includes the phrase _blood magic_.

Alistair snorts. "Haven't we been over this already? The Chantry blesses the ritual, that should be enough for you."

Jory nods reluctantly, lips tight, and finally steps back. I hear muttering from a few of the other Wardens, and sense eyes boring into Jory's back and neck.

"Your second task," Duncan continues, "is unrelated to the Joining. The effort must be made, and I have every confidence you are capable of seeing it through. There was once a Grey Warden archive nearby in the Wilds, no more than a few hours' journey to the west. It was abandoned long ago, when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to my attention that a number of scrolls may have been left behind. Any documents left in the archive would have been magically sealed to protect them, and are likely still in good condition. Alistair has a map to the archive, and knows what to look for. He will lead you to retrieve the scrolls if you can." He pauses, looking each of us full in the face. "Do any of you have any questions before you depart?"

Jory clears his throat, glances at the sky meaningfully, and then says, "You said the darkspawn horde is on the move?"

"I did," Duncan agrees. "The king's scouts believe they are grouping for an assault."

"Well…" Jory trails off, seeming annoyed that Duncan hasn't picked up on his implication. "Well, I mean no disrespect, but you said the archive is several hours away. That will be deep in the Wilds, will it not?"

"Indeed."

"Well…then, what I mean to say is that, with battle imminent, would it not be more prudent to delay such an expedition? Until we can muster out in greater force?"

The dwarf, Korith, growls and begins to stalk toward us, pointing a finger at Jory as he advances. Duncan raises a hand, and Korith stops in his tracks. From a few paces away, he glares at the knight, his tattooed face contorted in fury.

If Jory notices, his face – still flushed – betrays nothing as he continues to stare at Duncan.

"You may well be correct," Duncan says to Jory, still quite calm. "But this is not the time for prudence. This is the time for speed, and for urgency, both of which are best served by a few men, moving swiftly."

"Then what purpose is there in risking four lives for ancient papers?" Jory demands.

"Mind your tongue, recruit," Korith snarls.

Again, Duncan raises a hand. Korith sputters into silence, but his face is beet red. The rest of the Wardens are with him, staring malevolently at Jory, muttering back and forth. If we make it back from the Wilds, he'll have a lot to prove.

"I would not send any of you if I though the task suicidal. The archives are well away from the main body of the darkspawn horde. With Alistair to guide you, you should be back long before the day is out."

Jory works his jaw for a moment, thinking, then opens his mouth again. Before he can speak, though, I elbow him in the side, hard. It's enough to get him to shut his mouth for a second, and maybe an opportunity to keep this exchange from going further off track.

"If I may, Commander?" I ask.

"Of course."

"Perhaps what Ser Jory means to ask, is what the scrolls contain. I very much doubt any knight of Ferelden would object out of cowardice, but I'm sure we're all curious to understand purpose of our mission."

Surprising me, and probably everyone watching, Duncan nods approvingly. "No doubt you are correct, Liam. Even before Ser Jory volunteered to our service, I had heard he was a sound tactician. Hopefully, then, he will understand that there are times when orders must simply be followed."

Here, Duncan pauses to stare pointedly at Jory.

After a moment, the knight drops his head in assent. "Of course, Commander."

"Good," Duncan says. "This, however, need not be such a time. I invited questions, did I not?"

Now, Duncan is staring at Korith, who grumbles something under his breath and takes a few steps back. There may still be some reckoning later for Jory's defiance, but for now, the moment has passed.

"The scrolls," Duncan continues, "are old treaties. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They are not the only such manuscripts in existence, but they are valuable nonetheless. When signed, they were considered mere formalities. Now, with so many having forgotten their commitments to our Order, I suspect they may be needed, particularly if the battle does not go in our favor."

"Call me a dunce," Daveth says, "but if they're so valuable as all that, why leave 'em in the swamps in the first place?"

"Another good question. It was assumed we would someday return." Duncan sighs, and for a moment, he looks older than I've seen him before – the lines on his face cast in sharp relief, the weight on his shoulders heavier. "A great many things were assumed that have not held true, I fear. But that is a conversation for another time. The ruin will be overgrown by now, though perhaps in better shape than the one we stand in now. The seal's magic should have protected the scrolls, and only a Grey Warden can break such a seal. If you can locate the ruin, you should find the treaties with ease, and return them here. We may yet have need of them."

When its clear Duncan is finished speaking, Korith takes a single step in our direction.

"Any more _questions?_ " he asks, rather menacingly.

"Hopefully not," Alistair says. "Find the archive, fill the vials with blood. Simple enough, I should think."

Duncan, however, is not content with Korith's threat or Alistair's glib reply. He looks at each of us in turn, until we nod. Then he returns the gesture, quite solemnly.

"In that case, I will take my leave. There are other matters to attend to, beside your tasks. A tent has been prepared for you, and food. I suggest you eat your fill, and then rest. Alistair will wake you before sunrise."

He pauses, taking a moment to look each of us in the eye, before he continues.

"What you will do tomorrow, facing darkspawn for the first time – it is no easy task. Yet, you should take comfort in the knowledge that you walk in the footsteps of countless Wardens, your brothers and sisters, who came before you. May the Maker guide your steps along the path, and your blades to victory."

…

…

…

 **CODEX: The Ashen Faithful**

 _The charge of Ash Warriors is a sight to behold. With hounds at their side and fierce battle cries, the Ash Warriors have buckled the ranks of even the most stalwart veterans against whom I have seen them tested. If the enemy line does hold, then the true test begins. Quill and ink is a poor medium through which to convey the sheer power of their rages, or the ferocity they unleash on their foes._

 _Of course, none of this will be news to those familiar with their legend. Yet despite their renown, several misconceptions about the Ash Warriors continue to persist. Some, for instance, believe the mercenaries are predominately Avvar or Chasind tribesmen. Certainly, their war paint, and sometimes even their armor, does evoke barbarian roots._

 _In my travels as a chronicler and surgeon, I spent several months with a band of Ash Warriors, and found the men and women who made up the band entirely civilized. Although finding any who were willing to speak at length was difficult, it was clear they were all Ferelden-born. It was even more difficult to suss out any of their order's history – they allude to their tradition being passed down from Luthias the Dwarfson, whoever that is, and the name Morrighan'nan comes up quite often, but beyond that, I learned very little._

 _They were more willing to speak of their faith, however, and how their order came to serve Andraste. What they told me seems consistent with Chantry records, and may also explain some of the perceptions of barbarian influence on the Ash Warriors today. From what I gather, the early Ash Warriors were predominately, or perhaps exclusively, from the Alamarri tribes – the Alamarri, of course, being the earliest known people group to populate what is now Ferelden._

 _One fact about the Alamarri that runs contrary to many of the popular religious tales, to say nothing of Ferelden patriotism, and yet is acknowledged by the Chantry itself, is that not all of the Alamarri tribes flocked to Andraste when she began her ministry. Especially on the borders of the Korcari Wilds, her words, in fact, found scant purchase. Even decades after her martyrdom, many Alamarri held true to gods of their ancestors. The missionaries who braved these hard lands only followed in her path, becoming martyrs to the faith themselves. And so it continued for nearly a century._

 _What the Ash Warriors told me, however, is that this persistence of heathen belief was brought to an end during a bitter war which had broken out between these southern, idolatrous Alamarri tribes and the Chasind Wilders. During the war, while things were going badly for the Alamarri, the leader of the Ash Warriors, a man named Gelgenig, received a vision of Andraste. He was so moved by the vision that he traveled throughout what would become southern Ferelden, telling his tale and unifying the fractious tribal leaders – this was about the time they were coming to be called banns, by the way – beneath the banner of the Maker and His Bride, Andraste. Soon after, Gelgenig led the Alamarri to a staggering victory over the Chasind, driving them back deep into the Wilds._

 _Ever since, though they do not follow the Chantry's teachings, per se, the Ash Warriors have been fervent in their faith to the Maker, and their devotion to Holy Andraste._

 _Of the Ash Warriors I traveled with, only a few would tell me of their personal histories. One I spoke to was an arsonist, who joined on the gallows steps. Another had committed fratricide, and still another told of a past so dire I dare not make account of it here. All, however, believed that in joining the Ash Warriors, their crimes were forgiven, or more accurately forgotten, as was all of their previous life – it was, in fact, as though they had never been born._

 _I am not sure what peculiarity of Ferelden law permits such wholesale escape from justice, but everywhere we traveled, this tradition was taken at face value. Even the legal records of an Ash Warrior's old life are expunged: contracts voided, marriages annulled, records of birth erased. In this, they are not unlike the dwarven Legion of the Dead. Their new lives are dedicated to redemption and service._

 _This can be hard to tell at first meeting – they drink, and swear, and fight like the worst of heathens – and so, on my first night with the band, I was more than a little startled when they asked me to sing a few verses of the Chant of Light. Grim to a man, and fearsomely garbed, yet still they were as eager to hear the Chant as the most faithful parishioner._

 _As I sang the Holy Verses, I felt as the first missionaries must have – surrounded by barbarians._

 _The more I learned of the Ash Warriors, the more questions I discovered. They are mercenaries who demand no pay, men with no pasts, pledged to Andraste but not the Chantry, sworn to the king and yet not beholden to him. I could have traveled with them for many more years, I think, and still had many mysteries to uncover._

Excerpted from "The Ashen Faithful," a chapter in _The Annals of the Scarlet March_

By Brother Bedine, Chantry Scholar


	10. The Wilds

**CHAPTER NINE:** _The Wilds_

 **When we rise,** the eastern horizon is still dark. Other than the occasional sentry, no one moves in the camp; other than the occasional gust of wind, our footsteps are the only sound. Orange coals glow in the army's braziers, and torches flicker here and there. These provide the only light, the clouds above so thick that they blot out not only the stars but the moons as well.

In this dim, flat silence, Ostagar seems even older than it did yesterday. Even more indifferent to the history that plays out over its ancient stones.

The soldiers at the Western gate, Garret Hawke among them, cast us pitying looks as we pass by.

So do the archers posted along the worn dirt track that leads to the cliff's upper edge. There's a local hunter among their number, a tall, broad man whose powerful arms are covered with scars. As soon as he understands our intent, he asks, bluntly, what we think we're doing, going out there with so small party.

"Warden business," Alistair says curtly.

The hunter doesn't reply. He just shrugs. But his eyes say we're dead already.

Our route down the cliff can't really be called a path. A recent landslide has shallowed the angle, leaving a slope of clay and gravel that is still dizzyingly steep. We'll have ropes for the first hundred or so feet, and then proceed on foot. The archers tell me that it's shallower there, but I can't see that far.

We walk backwards over the brink, holding tight to the ropes, and rappel almost straight down. It feels like this goes on for an age, but when the ground underfoot is solid enough to support my weight, I look up and find I can still see the archers' faces above. Soon after, we're able to walk without the ropes, and call out for them to be pulled back up.

As the ropes snake away and I turn to face the rest of the descent, I get a sick feeling in my gut. Loathe though I am to agree with Jory on, well, anything, I can't help wondering if he's right. Maybe it's just that I don't like heights, or maybe it's the darkness all around, or maybe it's just that I'm up too early and grumpy, but I can't shake the premonition that this is all hopelessly reckless.

Even if killing a darkspawn and draining its blood into a jar is somehow an integral part of becoming a true Warden, I simply cannot fathom the logic that compels Duncan to send us deep into the Wilds, searching for some long-forgotten treaties. What good will those treaties do if we're killed before we can return them? And why press so far from camp to search for the enemy, when they will surely come to us in battle soon enough?

But I trust Duncan, I tell myself. I suppose I trust the other Wardens, too. None of them seemed less than completely confident in the necessity of this mission; they responded with outright hostility to Jory's questioning, in fact. They are seasoned warriors to the last, and none struck me as fools. Not even Alistair, awkward though he is. So there must be some purpose, one I can't yet see.

I hope so, anyway. If I'm going to break my neck in this descent, or eat a darkspawn's blade while wandering in the Wilds, I'd like to believe it'll have been for more than some wild goose chase. I don't want to die without purpose. Not with Highever's blood still unanswered.

I recall the memory of Iona's whispered words. _You will avenge me,_ vhenan. _This, the Dread Wolf has promised me._ Spoken by her spirit, beneath the statue of Fen'Harel himself. That _cannot_ be meaningless.

So I focus on thoughts of Howe's neck under my knife, and I choose my steps carefully, and take advantage of boulders and saplings and exposed roots, and, sooner than I expect, we reach the bottom of the slope.

From here, looking back up, it doesn't seem so bad. Funny, the way your place determines your perception.

Alistair consults the map Duncan provided, then gestures that we should gather round.

"The good news is, there aren't any darkspawn nearby," he says. "And I don't plan to look for a fight, at least not until after we've found the archive and the treaties. If we trip over any on the way, so be it, but I'd rather not draw their attention. There's nothing like a few darkspawn to ruin a nice stroll through a lovely swamp. At least, that's what they always say." He looks each of us in the eye, as briefly as possible, before nodding decisively. "Let's be off!"

And off he goes, along a small footpath. He hasn't unslung his shield, nor drawn his sword. In fact, he looks for all the world like he _is_ just out for a stroll.

I glance down at Madra. She, too, seems relaxed, and I trust her more than Alistair. Not enough to take any risks, though.

Working quickly, I uncork the bottle Clayne gave me and coax Madra into swallowing a few drops. She coughs twice, low and deep, and then shakes her head vigorously. When she finally settles, she fixes me with the mournful stare of a dog betrayed.

"It's for your own good," I protest.

She blinks once, slow and deliberate, to emphasize how disappointed she is in me.

While my hound continues to sulk, I switch my quiver to the edge of my hip for an easy draw. Then a quick pat-down of my various packs and pouches, making sure I didn't lose anything on the climb down. I check my short sword and boot knife, too, to be sure they will not bind in their sheaths.

Last, I unsling my new bow, a workmanlike ash recurve from the Warden's small stock. The grip is unfamiliar, the string coarse beneath my fingers as I test its draw. My old, familiar whitewood, passed down from my grandfather, felt like an extension of my body; this is stiff, requiring all my strength at the start of the draw before going almost slack when I pull the arrow to my ear.

Grimacing, I release the tension and select an arrow. As I draw once more, feeling the strange slackness in the line, I've got a sinking feeling. If this bow is as worthless as it feels, I'll be worthless, too.

Still, there's nothing for it but to try.

I take aim at a moss-covered stump maybe twenty yards away.

Breathe in, hold, release.

The arrow flies true, sinking into the bark with a satisfying _thwack_. It doesn't pierce quite as deep as I'd hope, but it'd be more than enough to down a man or deer. Or a darkspawn, I hope.

Satisfied, I sling the bow over my back again, hooking it onto the same straps as Father's longsword, and take off at a jog after the others, Madra chasing at my heels.

…

 **The forest begins a stone's throw of the cliff.** It feels like we're entering a different world. These trees are unlike any I've ever seen, as ancient as they are enormous. Trunks as wide as silos rise higher than castle walls before the first branches reach out, gnarled and strong, supporting a blanket of darkness. Though sunrise is still an hour away, the darkness has an air of permanence, as though the forest itself brooks no change.

All around, gnarled bark and thick cloaks of moss speak of seasons weathered and ages endured. These trees were here before Ostagar was carved out by the Tevinter. Maybe before the Dread Wolf's statue was erected by the elves, I think. Certainly long before the problems of today. And they will stand long after memories of this Blight have faded, and my frail tragedies have been lost to the Fade.

This is a solemn place. Sobering, even. The others have noticed, too. For a long time after we enter, no one speaks. Even Madra is quiet.

The forest floor is grassy, the ground even and solid. There were patches of underbrush between the trees – berries, ferns, and the like – but nothing impassable. Fallen trees block our way now and then, but otherwise the path is clear.

As we press further, the air grows colder. Darker, too, although the sun ought to be rising. A fine mist hangs suspended in the dim light, a misty haze obscuring the canopy above and the path ahead. The fog, the silence, the cold - it all feeds a sense of mysticism.

When Daveth falls in step with me, he starts out in a whisper that's almost reverent: "Never been in this part of the Wilds. Where I'm from, it's all thickets and brambles. Nothing like this. Never seen nothing quite like this, honestly. Not in all my life."

"Wait. You've actually been _in_ the Wilds before?"

"Told you that, I thought."

"Maybe. Probably. I remember you saying you grew up near Ostagar, but the rest…"

I let the thought trail off. I don't need to explain; Daveth's well aware of the haze I stumbled through after Highever fell.

"Used to scavenge there with pa, long time back. Back when I was knee-high to a dwarf. Scared me half to fuckin' death, being in those woods, what with all the stories we used to tell. But them woods were nothing compared to this. This…this is something else, isn't it?" He looks up, staring through dim light at the branches high above. "You could see legends walking in this place, you know?"

I do, but he's said it well enough that I've nothing to add beyond a nod.

"It an old place," he continues. "Or it's supposed to be, they say. Sure looks the part, eh? Supposed to be an _odd_ place, too. 'Odd place to put an army.' Pa used to say that about the Ostagar. Stories say there's cannibals, and monsters, and witches. Now darkspawn, too?" He chuckles. "Well, what _isn't_ to be scared of, right?"

Something tells me I ought to reply. It takes me a moment to settle on the words. "You watch my back," I offer, "and I'll watch yours."

Daveth grins. "Got yourself a deal. Maybe all we do is watch other's backs peeled off by some giant spider, but, sure, we can watch."

"Oh, stop it. You're being unbearably cheerful."

"Bit hard to be cheerful, place like this." He winks. "Try my best all the same, though, just for your sake. Gotta keep your courage up, right?"

"You have my eternal gratitude."

"Heh. Well, that's something. You are a noble, ain't you? Maybe you're gratitude's worth more than most."

"Not for much longer. I won't have a title once we're through with this Joining business."

"Damn. And me, planning to cash in once you got your little kingdom. Had visions of the high life. Mead and mutton and women…"

"Well, you seem to have the women well in hand, at least. Speaking of which, I owe you an apology. Until Alistair and I interrupted you yesterday, I was beginning to think you'd exaggerated your prowess with the fairer sex."

"Done what with the what now?" It takes a minute, but then he laughs. "Oh, girls! Right! Just caught me on a bad day, that's all. Getting with a Chantry sister is always a long shot, you know? Never have sealed that deal yet. As for the pretty one at the barricade – well, that was just bad luck, wasn't it? She'd have been the sort you remember til you take that last breath, I swear. You could tell just looking at her. Kind of woman you never forget."

For a moment, Iona's face flashes in my mind – her head back, eyes closed, body bare as she moves above me. I force myself to blink, banishing the images. The thought. The memory.

"Some things just aren't meant to be," I say.

"Ain't that the truth. Still, one door closes, they open the other. Or something like that, isn't it? Wonder how far you can get just on being a Warden. All tragic and heroic, you know? Might lift a few skirts, you play it right."

"Speaking of which – what'd you say, to that Templar, to get her to abandon her post? You must have a silver tongue indeed. Or did you just win her over with raw desperation?"

"Me, desperate?" He laughs again. "Well, alright, could've been I guess. Truth is, I don't know. But if I were that, then she were, too. Seen her on my way out, just sitting, there, not at no post, just whittling on a stick. Think she was looking for a distraction, and then, lucky for me, I just happened to come along."

"Lucky for you," I agree. "We didn't – ah – interrupt too _early,_ did we?"

"Hah! No. Not for me. Poor girl, though, I don't think she got hers. I would've finished her off, if it weren't for you lot. I'm a gentleman, see, and you should never let a lady leave wanting. But when it comes down to it, between us two… well, I'm a bit of a _selfish_ gentleman. Wartime brings that out in a fella, I guess. I got what I wanted, and I doubt I'll see her again, so… it ain't no bother for me, really."

"You got information, too. Thanks for that."

"Don't mention it. Hardly took any asking. She was ready to talk. All shook up about whatever them problems are, back at that Tower."

"Still, I appreciate it. Every piece helps the puzzle. I wasn't sure if you'd forgotten your promise – to be an extra set of eyes, I mean – when you ran off. But I shouldn't have doubted you. It was all part of the plan, get a girl and get information both at the same time. I see that now, and my hat's off to you, ser."

"Never seen you wear a hat," Daveth remarks. He looks down for a moment, almost sheepishly. "But, yeah, been meaning to say, sorry about that. Just…got a bit…I don't know the words for it, just… _bothered_ , I'd say. That quiet fellow, I mean. Just bothered me."

"The Tranquil?"

"Yeah. Well, no. Not really. Not him, exactly. Bothered me what they _done_ to him."

"I wondered. You seemed… shaken up, I guess."

"Thought of doing that to some bloke…" He shakes his head. "Fucked up, that is. No other way to say it. Fucked up to do that to anyone."

I press my lips together, not sure how to respond. Not sure if I ought to. A tangle of roots obstructs the path ahead, each one at least knee-high and several feet across. Climbing between them is a welcome distraction, especially since I have to coax Madra. Her barreled chest and muscular legs were made for leaping, not scrabbling over old bark, and watching her strain and tumble is almost comical.

By the time we're past, I've almost forgotten the Tranquil, but Daveth hasn't.

"You don't think it's fucked?" he asks.

I shrug uncomfortably, watching him from the corner of my eye. "It was…unsettling, I guess." Even that, honestly, is a stretch, but I'm trying to mollify, not argue. Then I remember the moment that passed between Aenid and Wynne, and I add, more honestly, "I guess it seemed sad, too."

"That all?"

Reluctantly, I nod. "I've seen what mages can do. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed how dangerous they are. The one in the castle – it tore through guards like they were nothing. I've ever seen anything like that. Highever – you know, Highever never would've fallen if Howe didn't have those bastards on his side. So, if there's a solution – a way to deal with mages, with the ones that go bad – then I suppose I'm glad to know it."

"How dangerous they are?" he says slowly, repeating my earlier words. "Dangerous, sure, I'll give you that. They are. But yanking the feelings out of someone? Just because they're dangerous? Whatever that thing was, it weren't no man. Not really. Not all the way. Not no longer."

"Right, but… it's got to be better than just killing them, though, don't you think?"

"No!" Daveth's vehemence startles me. "Fuck no! It's worse, and that's why – what you just said, that's why it's worse! It's easier to say to yourself, 'Well, it ain't _killing_ him, is it?' You yank a man's soul out, but at least you didn't kill him, right?" He shakes his head. "Mage goes bad, you kill him. Like you did the one at Highever, right? That's life. But not…not _that_."

"So… you're saying it would've been better to kill Aenid than make him Tranquil?"

"Same damn thing, isn't it? Better dead than have your soul yanked out just cause some priest decides you're dangerous."

"I'm sure there's more to the decision than just a priest's whim. We don't know what Aenid did, but he told me himself he's safer now that he's –"

"And how in fuck all would _he_ fucking know? He's not himself no more, that's clear as glass the minute he says a bloody word! And safe? The fuck does that mean, _safe_? Safe's nothing if you've got no life to live."

It's the first time I've seen him this way – this angry – and it's caught me off guard.

"All I meant," I say carefully, "is it sounds like there's a method to it. It wouldn't be done _just in case_ a mage might become dangerous. The Chantry would never stand for that. So the Templars must only be allowed to use it when they know a mage is actually a danger. Aenid said so himself, and so did the other mage, Wynne, the one that came out after you left."

The cords on Daveth's neck are standing out as he continues to shake his head. I'm not getting through, not at all.

I spread my hands wide, placating. "All I'm saying is that if the Templars think it's necessary, I'm not going to second guess them."

His jaw works several times before replying, calmer than I expect. "You're just saying that cause you don't know no better. That's all."

Now my temper is pricked. I'm not about to be talked down to, or dismissed. But I bite my tongue, force myself into silence for several paces. Once I'm calm again, I ask what he means.

"Look, you – it's not your fault, not really," he says. "You're from good people, you know? Your family I mean. People who used their power the right ways. So you haven't seen what it really is. You never seen how it gets used the rest of the time. On the rest of us. And if a Templar can say to himself, 'Oh, it's not killing him,' then it's that much easier to do. It's cowardly, is what it is. If a man needs to die, all right, I can see that. But fucking own up to it! I seen beggars with their whole hands cut off, cause some noble caught 'em stealing and thought _just_ cutting off a hand was some kind of fucking mercy."

His words come in a staccato rhythm, a stream of bitterness and venom so concentrated that I'm genuinely speechless.

"Seen children whipped for not looking down at the ground when some fucking exalted so-and-so walked by. Seen girls given gold, after they was dragged off, kicking and screaming, so some little lordling could have his way, like the gold makes it all right, and then Maker save them if they have a child and come asking for more, to put food in its mouth. Seen girls and their babies just disappear, so some fucking bloodline ain't sullied."

Daveth spits.

"Fucking cowards, that's all it is. Like I said, it's not on you. Your family, I told you before, even in Denerim people said they was good folks. But it ain't that way, not everywhere. Not most places. Most places, the people with the power piss on the rest of us, and call it charity. Like making that man a Tranquil and thinking it's mercy. Bullshit, that's all it is."

All I can do is nod. I've got no reply. No idea whether the picture he's painted is truth, or bitterness, or some combination of the two.

Maybe the rage and sadness I've just witnessed were always brimming beneath Daveth's ribald humor, and I missed them, blinded by my own pain. Or maybe I wouldn't have seen them in any case, not without Daveth rubbing this in my face. Maybe it's best he did, if only so I can understand him a little better.

After a few minutes, I clear my throat. It's an olive branch, one Daveth accepts with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to rip your head off like that. Like I say, you're from good people. Not your fault you ain't seen the worst. Just… guess I just wanted you to know what's out here, really. Reckon I got a bit carried away, is all."

"It's all right. I never – I never knew things were like that. And, I don't want to beat a dead horse, but I just want to be sure I understand – what you're saying is, you're worried that making a mage Tranquil would be too easy to abuse, because it might be easier to justify than killing them outright?"

"Aye, that's what I said, isn't it? Seems to me, the easy way's the evilest of all sometimes. Heard that in a sermon once, I think. Took a long time for me to see truth in it, but I do now."

…

 **About an hour into the Wilds** , we come across the first swamp. Alistair pauses to consult his map, then leads us around its edge. Bugs swarm over algae colonies and clusters of lily pads, and the air is choked with the smell of fetid water.

There are oddly-shaped rock outcroppings at the center of the bog. Their dark shapes, too angular to be natural, protrude from the mist in regular intervals that suggest a ruin of some sort. Maybe an old bridge. Alistair pauses, studying them for a moment, before we continue.

We're just reaching the far end of the bog when I hear a splash behind us, and Madra growls. We all spin, drawing weapons. Whatever it was, it's already gone, leaving only a wide ring of ripples. We watch the water move until it is almost still again, and then turn away slowly. Our weapons stay out for some time.

…

 **There are more swamps after the first,** many more, until at times we have to walk single file, threading our way along narrow strips of dry land.

Madra stays close by, passing the time by growling at random tree trunks. This scares me half-senseless at first. Even after the fifth or sixth time, when no monsters or enemies have sprung out with talons bared, and when I still can't pick out any difference between the trees she growls at and the ones she doesn't, it's hard not be unsettled.

Alistair consults the map often, requiring us to stop each time. At first, I'm curious how he's able to navigate without compass or any obvious landmarks. Then I realize he's relying on more of the stones we saw in the first bog. They aren't ruins – they're landmarks, and we turn a bit further south every time we glimpse one in the distance.

At last, we come closer, passing within maybe ten yards of one of the landmarks. The stone is polished with age, but there are markings on its side, faded but still visible. It is a script I don't recognize, along with a shape that might be a stylized eye turned on its side. Between the lichen and the darkness, it's hard to tell. And it _is_ still dark, I note. There's been no sign of daybreak.

No sooner has this thought crossed my mind than sunlight appears, far ahead, filtering down through the distant canopy, each ray so distinct as to be tangible. It is more the color of a cloudy afternoon than the brightness of a sunrise; after so great an expanse of shadow, however, the impact is powerful.

None of us speak, but I know we're each relieved when Alistair turns that way, leading us toward the light.

…

 **Reaching it takes longer than I expect.** And when we finally do, we find it completely impassable. I'd assumed the break in the canopy might be caused by a clearing, or perhaps a swamp large and deep enough to choke back the forest.

Instead, we find a swath of shattered trees. There are dozens, maybe hundreds. I can't begin to count them all. They're toppled in every direction, jumbled over and under each other. Some have been ripped up by the roots, leaving gouges in the earth that have filled with rainwater; others have been snapped off, leaving fractured trunks that rise dozens or hundreds of feet before ending in jagged splinters.

Beside me, Jory whispers a benediction.

"Blimey," Daveth says.

There is no order to the destruction before us. This wasn't caused by a fire, or a storm, or a flood, or any other disaster I can bring to mind. More than anything else, this recalls a field, trampled by a frenzied animal. What animal, though, could wreak such havoc?

It's childish, I know, but I can't help thinking of dragons.

They're said to be all but extinct. Even in the distant past, before their kind began to fade, dragons were never particularly plentiful in Ferelden. Brother Aldous liked to joke that they must not have liked our flavor; as a child, I always wondered why, if that were true, all the other monsters in the tales didn't seem to mind. The High Dragon whose rampage preceded the Battle of the River Dane was the first to venture south of the Waking Sea in centuries – and, to my knowledge, none have been seen since, despite the naming of our present age.

What other explanation there could be, however, I have no idea. Giants, maybe? I seem to recall that they prefer warmer climates, but I could be remembering that the wrong way.

Then, suddenly, the realization washes over me. There _is_ a dragon that could have done this. One with a reason to be here, in these Wilds.

The Archdemon.

…

 **I don't share my theory with the others.** I'm not sure why.

There's the chance I'm wrong, of course. Alistair might know, if I cared to ask him. But I don't, because it doesn't matter. It really doesn't.

If the Archdemon _was_ in that clearing, then it was weeks ago, and of no consequence to us, at least until the battle. If, on the other hand, it is still nearby, and Alistair hasn't sensed it yet, then we're already dead.

And if it was never here, then I'll just sound like a fool.

That's what I tell myself anyway. The fear, though, won't leave. It settles in my stomach, twisting into painful knots. Though it's still cold, I'm drenched in sweat.

…

 **The going is harder now.** We have to wade sometimes, choosing the shallowest route through muddy bogs. Even when the path is dry, it's choked with vines and brambles. The earlier silence has been replaced constant hum of bugs, crickets, and frogs. And still there is no sign of the Warden outpost.

When I ask, Alistair says we should be there within the hour. Or within a few hours. He equivocates hopelessly, mixing in a few jokes at his own expense. None of it inspires confidence.

Still no sign of any darkspawn, either. Alistair says they're "not near, but not far, either."

Whatever the hell that means.

…

 **A few miles past the clearing,** we the path crosses a stream, and Alistair calls for a halt. The water runs fast and clear, down the side of a rocky slope. Though it feeds into the endless bogs, here it looks safe enough to drink. A stroke of luck, too, as my waterskin is almost empty. Even if I weren't thirsty, though, I'd be grateful for the rest.

After so many days in the saddle, I'm unused to walking, let alone in these conditions. My feet are soaked, my boots caked with mud. As I kneel down in the soft gravel at the stream's edge, my legs shake, and standing again takes effort

Groaning, I stumble over to a moss-covered boulder and sit, massaging stiff muscles. Madra nuzzles my knee, water still dripping from her lips. Her attention reminds me of Clayne's medicine, and the flowers I'm meant to find. I lean forward, studying the area around the stream. There are none, of course. No, that'd be too easy. Much too easy.

I lean back again, my fingers brushing over Madra's ears.

A few paces away, Daveth yells. There's a spray of water and a splash, followed by cursing.

The rest of us leap up, ready for a fight – but before we've even drawn weapons, it's clear there's no threat. Daveth was startled, not attacked. He's on his knees now, pushing reeds back to reveal… _something_ at the water's edge.

"All right. I'm all right," he says, waving us off.

He's found a large bundle of mud-caked beige cloth, half-submerged in the creek. I have to squint to recognize it as a human body.

"Lucky stroke he's downstream a bit." Daveth is grinning. "Poor fucker's been in the drink a while now. He'd of poisoned us, likely as not."

Quite nonchalantly, Daveth begins to check the corpse's pockets. With a grimace, he rolls the body, exposing a leather rucksack and a deep stomach wound. He gags, turns away, then gags again.

Once he's regained his composure, Daveth unbuttons the rucksack and spills its contents out on the ground. There's molded food, a canteen, a few utensils, some clothing – all the things you'd expect – along with a small, felt-covered lockbox, a bundle of letters bound with twine, and a small coin purse.

Immediately and shamelessly, Daveth pours the coins into his palm, counting them. Behind me, Jory makes a strangled noise.

"What?" Daveth asks, without looking up. "Not like _he_ needs them anymore."

Ignoring the post-mortem larceny, Alistair picks up the letters and slips them free of the twine.

Jory throws up his hands and stalks several paces away, where he proceeds to breath heavily through his nostrils. Perhaps it's a bit dramatic, as reactions go, but I can't argue with the disgust. The dead are no less deserving of respect than the living; they may even deserve more. What I'm watching doesn't look so much like theft as desecration, and I can't decide whether I'm more bothered by Daveth's greed or Alistair's nonintervention.

"His name is Jogby, I think" Alistair says after a moment. "He's a missionary. Well, he _was_ a missionary. He was here to spread the Chant to the local tribes."

"Then he was a bloody fool," Daveth says. "Barbarians got their own gods. Probably them that killed him, for trying to change their minds."

"I don't think so… The letters are mostly from his father, a fellow called Rigby. He was already established, preaching to one of the clans, and Jogby here was coming to meet him. But… it sounds like the Wilders left. He says they heard from another tribe that there were monsters coming from the south."

"Well, we know what that's about, don't we?" Daveth stands and dusts off his breeches. "If it weren't barbarians, it was darkspawn. There now, we've solved the mystery of the dead preacher."

"He wrote a will," Alistair says, still focused on the letters. "Jogby did, I mean. By the sounds of it, he knew he was going to die. It says to …says he wants that lockbox taken to his wife in Redcliffe. Her name's Jetta."

Daveth barks a laugh. "Well that's bloody hopeful, isn't it? Who's going to find your body out here?"

" _We_ did," Jory remarks, turning and fixing Daveth with a stare that would curdle milk.

"Fair point." Daveth turns the lockbox over in his hands. "How do you suppose you unlock this little beauty?"

Alistair shakes his head. "We don't. It says here he wants it delivered to Jetta, still sealed."

"So? You're not thinking of trying to find her, are you?" Daveth chuckles, then looks up when he realizes that no one else is laughing. "Oh, for fuck's sakes. You are, aren't you?"

"Why not?" Alistair holds out his hand expectantly

"It is the only decent thing to do," Jory says firmly.

"Decent…" Daveth shakes his head incredulously, then tosses the locker to Alistair. "No skin off my nose, I guess. Bloody waste, though you ask me…" He returns his attention to the rucksack, still grumbling.

Alistair pockets the lockbox, then shuffles through Jogby's papers. "This one's torn from a book. There's a note here that says Jogby found this at some ruin nearby, near some skeletons. It's about…" Alistair frowns. "About how to summon a spirit called Gazareth, using a pinch of ashes."

Grimacing, Alistair hurriedly refolds the papers. "No good can come of that!" he exclaims. "Start sprinkling ashes for demons and, _whoops_ , shazam! You're a frog!"

Again with the frogs. I'm about to remark on it –

Suddenly, and with a loud, deep-throated growl, Madra leaps to her feet. She lunges into the middle of the creek, barking furiously. Her lips pull back from her teeth, and every muscle in her body tenses as she lowers her body until her belly is below the water.

We move almost as quickly as she does, drawing weapons and closing ranks. Even if I hadn't seen this before, in the moments immediately before Howe's men crashed into my bedchambers, there's no misunderstanding Madra. She's not unsettled, not just growling at trees. She's ready for a fight.

And not a second too soon. The attack comes so quickly, you could miss it in a blink. They don't come from across the stream, the direction Madra is focused, but from our flanks. A blur of grey fur and bared teeth at the corner of my vision. Not darkspawn. Not giants or dragons.

Wolves.

Before I can begin to pivot, one has already hit me. The arrow I'd knocked goes wide as I tumble to the ground. The beast would've had my throat if it weren't for Jory, who has smashed it away with his shield.

He's still on his feet, sword flashing. A wolf yelps like a wounded puppy, blood spraying.

"Back to back! Back to back!" Jory is bellowing the command. He's retreating toward Alistair, blood on his sword, shield up.

Daveth's still on his feet, long knives in each hand. The three of them are shoulder to shoulder, standing over me as I scramble to my feet, drawing another arrow. Madra is at my side, thank the Maker, her weight pressed against my boots, her growl drowned by the howling of the wolves.

The one Jory cut is slinking away; another lies dead, where Alistair stood moments ago.

The rest of the pack is not deterred. There are at least a dozen, circling patiently. They watch us with fierce, yellow eyes, and moving in careful patterns that offer no avenue for escape or attack.

They're waiting for us to move, and we're waiting for them. All of us, waiting for action or opportunity.

There were wolf packs in the forests near Highever, I recall. Sometimes they would trouble local farmers. Fergus was particularly fond of hunting them, and of the thick, silver-grey pelts he could mount on walls and corridors throughout the castle. There was a certain scrappy dignity about them that even Fergus respected, and I saw the same. I used to feel rather solemn whenever we made a kill.

These wolves are nothing like those I remember. They were barely larger than a Mabari; these are easily twice Madra's size, with ink-black hair growing coarse and matted around the shoulders, and wiry and sparse over the rest of the bodies.

I'm just drawing an arrow back, lining up a shot, starting to draw my breath in.

One lunges, snapping. Alistair raises his shield, jabs with his sword. The wolf draws back immediately, never coming within range, and Alistair is thrown off balance. He stumbles forward, almost losing his footing, but Daveth reaches out and catches his belt.

At almost the same time, a wolf on the opposite side of the pack lunges, taking advantage of our distraction. Jory bats it to the ground, then skewers it with his sword.

Before he has finished with his thrust, however, another is lunging, snapping and growling, threatening his legs. He pivots, wrenching his sword free, and drives the beast back with a wide slash. Even as that wolf slinks back, though, another darts in from behind.

I'm already tracking this wolf with the point of my arrow. As Jory begins to spin, I release the bowstring. No time for a full draw. Not time for proper breathing. Hardly even time to aim. Even so, the arrows flies true, sinks between two ribs.

It's a fatal wound, puncturing both lungs, but not immediately fatal. The wolf smashes into the dirt at Jory's feet, thrashing and growling in pain, forcing the knight to jump back, away from the safety of our party. The rest of the pack shifts immediately, circling around, meaning to cut him off from our help.

As I'm drawing my next arrow, I whistle once and gesture with three of the fingers on my bow-hand.

Madra reacts immediately, springing to Jory's side. She ducks below one of the wolves, then raises her head, jaws open, tearing into its belly. It yelps and drops on top of her, trying to twist inward, to bite back, but she's already got the advantage. She's locked onto its throat. They pinwheel away, a mess of fur and blood and teeth. It might look like there's still a fight, but I know better. The moment Madra got at its belly, she won.

Skipping away from the dogfight, Jory is still on his feet. He kills another, opening its neck to the bone as it snaps at his boots. He's in constant motion; every wolf that comes close earns a cut or a strike.

Just like Madra's fight, though, this battle is already over – no matter his skill, Jory cannot keep them all back, not for much longer. Not without help. And with the bulk of the pack now between us, there's no chance we can reach the knight in time. The best I can do is try to buy him opportunities, and hope it's enough.

I send another arrow at a wolf that's circled behind Jory. This time, my shot isn't blessed by luck. The arrowhead barely pierces flesh, sticking into the meat and bone of the wolf's shoulder. It winces, but barely slows. Its haunches tense and it begins to rise, coming up toward Jory's back.

I don't want to watch.

Something hums past my ear, a blur of motion. One of Daveth's daggers.

It sinks into the neck of the same wolf, just inches ahead of my arrow, but to greater effect. Blood arcs, splashing Jory's back, and wolf spasms in mid-air before crashing to the ground.

Madra is back up now, blood on her muzzle, light in her eyes. She twines between Jory's legs, snapping at any that make it past his guard. She's defending him, but I know she's also guiding him back toward us, using subtle movements to guide his footwork so he can focus on the enemy. She and I have worked these drills a thousand times; Jory, too, has clearly trained with war dogs. He surrenders control of his position, trusting Madra, and together they part the circling wolves.

We push forward too, Alistair and Daveth doing the bulk of the work as I'm forced to swing my bow like a common staff, rarely having enough time to draw arrows.

And then we're back together, the four of us and Madra, at the center of the circling pack.

Now the wolves are cautious. A few are injured, and many more are dead at our feet. None of those left seem eager to rush in first.

Next to me, Jory begins to yell. "Drive them back! Drive them back!"

He smashes his sword's pommel against the face of his shield, then roars a battle cry. Alistair begins to mimic him, and then Daveth and I join in the yelling.

I'm not sure what we're thinking. Maybe enough noise will intimidate them?

I kill two more wolves with arrows before the survivors charge – all of them rushing in at once. I try to line up a shot, but they're too quick. For the second time in maybe a minute, Jory's shield saves my life, smashing away a pair of snapping jaws.

An instant later, though, another makes it past. I don't see it, only feel the pressure on my boots, something yanking at me from behind. I tumble to the ground, kicking blindly. My foot connects with something solid. A wolf yips, and the pressure releases.

There's no time for relief. Not even time to check my ankle for injuries. They're all around me, right at eye-level, teeth bared, twisting and snarling, held back only feet away by my desperate allies.

They should have overwhelmed us already. They nearly took us apart earlier, when they came one at a time. The whole pack, working in tandem – we shouldn't stand a chance.

But that's just it. They're fighting more like cornered animals and less like a pack. As I push myself up, drawing my short sword as I rise, I can clearly see a wolf's eyes. They're frighteningly blank, missing all the intelligence I'd expect. There's only anger. Anger, and panic, but no hunger, and no fear.

For an instant, I'm reminded of the rats in Highever's store room, dozens of them rushing at Aeron and I in one furious wave, oblivious to anything but bloodlust.

Then I'm on my knees, sword in hand. Daveth stands almost directly above me, slashing wildly.

One of the wolves slips in under Daveth's pin-wheeling blades and comes at me, but I open a wide gash on its nose. It yelps and rolls away, then sprints into the underbrush, abandoning the fight.

I seize the opportunity and jump the rest of the way to my feet.

Instead, I see only one wolf still on its feet, limping away. Madra, who has just savaged the throat of another, moves to follow, but I whistle twice, signaling her back.

Reluctantly, she obeys and returns to my heel. Her coat is slick with blood, almost none of it her own. She pants happily, tongue lolling out, and regards me with something bordering on adoration.

"The fuck was that about?" Daveth gasps.

He's panting too, with considerably less enthusiasm than Madra.

I look around the muddied dirt and trampled ferns. I count at least ten wolves, dead or dying.

Beside me, Ser Jory flicks blood from his blade. "I've never known wolves to behave in such a fashion." He wipes the sword clean with a rag, checks the length of the blade, and sheathes it. The whole while, he's shaking his head. "I would call them crazed, rabid even. It may have saved our lives, and yet it strikes me as an ill omen."

Though I'm hardly an expert, I find myself nodding. They hunted as a pack at first, but it only took only a few casualties before they seemed to lose their minds.

Alistair has dropped to one knee beside the most gravely injured of the wolves. It tries to twist toward him, giving a feeble snap, but doesn't have the strength. I expect Alistair is going to put it out of its misery, but instead he removes a glove and places his bare hand against the wolf's flank.

I watch in silence, massaging my boot where the wolf grabbed my ankle. It didn't break leather, let alone skin. Lucky again. My bow, laying nearby, is also miraculously unbroken. Relying on feel alone, I check it for cracks, for the slightest sign of imperfection. I don't know it nearly as well my old bow, but I can find no flaw.

After almost a full minute with his hand on the wolf's side, Alistair nods, seeming to have confirmed something for himself. He sighs heavily, then rises and runs the beast through.

"You weren't far off, Jory," he says. "They're Blighted. Well, this one was, anyhow. And I'd wager the rest of the pack was, too."

"Blighted?" Daveth leaps back from the nearest corpses. His terror might seem comical if he weren't my friend, and we hadn't nearly died a minute ago. "Fucking _darkspawn wolves_?"

"Didn't you take any notice of Commander Duncan's training?" Jory asks, though I think I hear a bit of a tremor in his voice as well. "The Blight spreads to all living things, even animals. Are they ghouls, then, Ser Alistair?"

"For the millionth time, it's just Alistair," says Alistair, sighing. "And, no, they're not ghouls, but they're well on the way. The Taint has – well, _had_ – taken hold in this one. I'm sure it spread to the rest of the pack."

"So this really _is_ a Blight," Jory says heavily. "Duncan said the land itself would become infected."

"Yes, for the last time, this is a Blight! Has that ever been in doubt?" Alistair is starting to sound cross. "Or did you sign up hoping this was all just a misunderstanding? That we'd get down here and someone would say, 'Oops! Turns out they were just some hideous old women who got drunk and ran around with pruning shears, everyone can go home now.' We've told you this was a Blight since Caer Oswin! What did you expect?"

Jory looks down at his shoes, his face mottled red.

For my part, I can't help noting how pale Alistair's has become. Even in the dim light, it's obvious his cheeks have drained of color. The anger in his voice is nowhere to be found in his eyes, nor in his expression. He's shaken, though not, I think, because of the wolves or the Blight.

With some effort, Alistair takes in a long, steady breath. In a softer tone, almost conciliatory, he says, "I'm no expert, but if the land itself was truly Blighted, we'd be able to tell. There are other ways the wolves could've been infected." He cracks a nervous grin. "Most likely, they ate a darkspawn or two, got indigestion. I've heard you have to cook the buggers all the way through, get 'em really well done, before you eat them. Lots of garlic, too. But I doubt anyone told the wolves that."

Daveth chuckles, and even Jory smiles begrudgingly.

Alistair nods once, seeming pleased with himself. A bit of confidence returns. "We should get moving," he says, hefting his pack from the ground.

"Wait up a minute," Daveth says, like he's working something out. "Hold up now. They've got that Blight, you said. They're not darkspawn, but it's the same Blight, right?"

"I… _suppose._ "

"Right then." Daveth takes a hesitant step toward one of the corpses. "So… so, then, would their blood do for us? For this Joining business, I mean?"

Jory starts to nod, and I can't deny surge of hope, myself. This expedition feels more ill-fated by the hour. I wouldn't mind cutting it short.

"Uh, no." Alistair rubs his jaw. "Well…" He's silent for a few moments, then shakes his head. "No, no, it wouldn't be the same."

"Well, fuck," Daveth says, which, I think, just about sums it up.

Alistair clears his throat like he's about to say something, but nothing follows. After a few seconds of silence, he shrugs the rest of the way into his pack and walks off down the trail.

He's out of his depth, I decide. But there's nothing I can do to help. It's not as though I have any more experience leading men, and I'm certainly not against a Blight. All the same, I wish I _could_ do something to help the younger man. We need leadership.

But all I can think to do is hoist my pack over my shoulder and whistle for Madra to follow, so that's what I do. Leaving Jogby's body in the creek, and the blighted wolves where they fell, we push on, unease growing with every step.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: JOGBY'S LETTERS**

The following letters were found on the body of the missionary Jogby, in the Korcari Wilds, in 9:30 Dragon.

 _My Dearest Son,_

 _It pleases me that you wish to follow in my footsteps and bring the Maker's word to the unenlightened. I wish you had chosen a less dangerous place to do so, but in this way, it seems, you and are I too much alike._

 _I must apologize for leaving early for the Wilds, my son. I wanted to set up camp and get things started, so that once you arrived, we could begin our ministry together. I reasoned this would give you time to see your sweet wife back to health after the birth of my grandchild. When we see each other, I hope to hear all about our newest family member._

 _The Chasind respect those with the skills to survive in the Wild. I hope, by the time you arrive, to have proved to them my mettle; I have already met some of the local tribesmen, and though they are cautious, they seem friendly enough. Once they realized I was not seeking their protection, and could fend for myself, at least for the time being, they proved willing to trade a few items with me. I think they are still skeptical of my skills, but a few more weeks here and I shall have proved myself worth their time._

 _When you reach the Wilds, you'll find it difficult to navigate. There are old ruins that can be used as landmarks, though calling them ruins is generous. They are distinguishable only as old stones, almost like highway markers. I've enclosed a crude map, which also shows a number of natural terrain features._

 _I've left supplies near a clearing that appears to have been made by a most frightful creature. It brings to mind tales of giants. Once you find the supplies, camp a few days there; that will be our meeting point._

 _I love you, Jogby, and am proud of the man you have become. I hope to see you soon._

 _Your Father,_

 _Rigby_

The first letter is folded neatly, and sealed within an envelope.

The second is smudged with dirt, and appears to have been nailed to a tree at some point, before being torn down.

 _Jogby,_

 _If you are reading this, you have found the camp and supplies. I will be with you in a few days, no more than a week. The Chasind seem to have disappeared. They left markings on their chieftan's hut, which I believe are intended for me, though I cannot decipher the meaning. They seem to have traveled north, though I cannot be sure how far._

 _When last I saw them, they told me that another tribe had passed by, also going north. That tribe claimed there were monsters deeper in the Wilds. What they described sounded like the scriptures about darkspawn, though what they'd be doing in the Wilds, I can't guess._

 _I was making progress with the tribe, so I'm going to try to follow their trail for a few days. If I can catch up to them, I hope to sing to them from the Chant at least one more time. Perhaps they will see the Maker's light before continuing on their journey._

 _In case there is credence to their fears, I've left a weapon with the supplies – and the supplies are everything I could spare. If more than a week passes, or the supplies run low, you should return to Redcliffe. I'll hope to meet you, whether here or there, in safety._

 _If you see your mother before I do, or if the worst should happen, be sure that everyone knows how much I love them._

 _Hopefully we'll see each other soon. Do be careful._

 _Your father,_

 _Rigby_

There are no more letters from the missionary Rigby. However, there are several notes in another hand, most likely Jogby's. The first is written carefully on parchment, and was sealed with wax before Alistair broke the seal.

 _To Whoever Finds This Note:_

 _This is the last Will and Testament of the Missionary Rigby, son of the Missionary Jogby, proud speaker of the Maker's word. I have come to the Wilds to speak the Chant to the Chasind, following in my father's footsteps. Instead, I have found only monsters. I believe they are darkspawn, and I escaped them only by the Maker's grace, but they have wounded me gravely. I fear I will die of my injuries, if they do not find me first._

 _I leave all that I came with to my wife, Jetta. Should the reader of this note feel charitable, I would ask that they deliver whatever possessions, if any, remain, to Jetta, who lives in Redcliffe, near the Chantry. There is a small lockbox in my pack, and it is my wish that this be delivered to Jetta, still sealed._

 _To my wife and newborn son, I apologize that my work has taken me from you. Please know that I died in the service of the Maker, and that you were His greatest gifts to me._

Another note, scrawled by the same hand but with considerably less finesse, is folded alongside the torn page of a book. Someone else – not Rigby – has written in the books margins. The note reads:

 _Found this in the ruins near where I believe father camped. Was next to a pile of bones, probably two men, dead for years. No explanation for how the paper survived so long, if it belonged to the men at all. The place gave me chills, left immediately. Something was wrong there. Profane. Turn this over to the Templars if I make it back._

The torn page, printed in dark ink, reads as follows:

 _rife with legends and myths that have amazed and confounded scholars since the fall of Ostagar in ancient times._

 _One such mystery lies behind the tale of Astia and Nebbunar, two young lovers who lived in Ostagar during the height of Tevinter's power._

 _The legend says that Astia, who possessed magical abilities, grew up in the company of Gazareth, a spirit of the earth bound to a ruin on a bluff beside a lake in the Korcari Wilds. Gazareth began to fancy her, and they spent many days together, talking and laughing. Gazareth taught Astia many secrets of magic, and she brought him joy. Over the years, however, Astia became a woman, and she began to seek the company of men._

 _When Astia met Nebbunar, the two fell immediately in love. Astia hoped to bring her lover to see her spirit friend. But Gazareth, angered and jealous, bade her begone. Gazareth told her that she would never see him again until she brought her lover's ashes to his ruin and sprinkled them in the lake._

 _Astia was horrified, and fled from the spirit. But she began to miss Gazareth, and returned to the lake, hoping to find her friend. No matter how many times she went, or how much she begged, or how many tears she cried, Gazareth would not appear._

 _Not long after, Nebbunar asked Astia to marry him. She agreed, but soon after, knowing that such marriage would mean she would never see Gazareth again, Astia changed her mind. One night, as they shared a bed, Astia cut Nebbunar's throat, burnt his body, and brought his ashes to Gazareth, as proof to her friend that she would never leave him again._

 _What became of Astia is unknown, but there are legends among the Chasind that Gazareth still haunts the lake, and that those who sprinkled the ashes of the deceased over the right spot can summon the spirit. It is said that, in memory of the contract he made with his beloved Astia, Gazareth will grant a single wish, and then vanish, never to be heard from again._

In the margins of the page, someone (not Jogby or Rigby) has scribbled a note:

 _Markus – I think this is reel. If we take the ash's I gave you and skatter them on a pile of roks by that klif – the one next to the sunk Tavintur place – maybe Gazareth will appear and give us a wish. Worth a try, right?_


	11. Tattered Faces, Sundered Bodies

**CHAPTER TEN:** _Tattered Faces, Sundered Bodies_

" **You're fixed to get yourself killed,"** Daveth says, catching up to me.

He's a bit winded, having stayed behind in the wolf's clearing a bit longer than the rest of us, then running to catch up. I have no idea why. Maybe old habits took over, and he was picking Rigby's pockets? I guess I don't want to know.

"Get myself killed? How do you mean?"

Daveth glances at Alistair, who's well ahead of us. He lowers his voice before explaining, apparently trying to avoid embarrassing me in front of our leader. "How do you think?" he hisses. "Going all bows and arrows in a fight like that! Quick way to get dead."

"He's right, I'm afraid," Jory says quietly.

"I'm better with a bow," I reply, trying not to snap. I'm not sure whether I'm irritated at them, or at myself, but if these two are in agreement on this – or anything – I can hardly afford to ignore them. So all I can do is offer meek protest. "I killed at least two of them."

"Fine, so you got a few," Daveth says. "But when they got in close, you were fucking useless, right? And wolves only fight in close, see? Wolves and dogs, both. You might get one or two with arrows, but the rest'll be on you before you can say 'Oh, shit,' and I had to keep 'em back from you, which I don't mind, see, but what if I'm not around? Or what if it's just you and me? I can't hold 'em all off myself, not standing over you like that. Ser Knight here, he saved your ass too, didn't he? At least twice?"

Heat rises in my cheeks. I try to turn away, so they won't see my embarrassment. Or my anger. They're only trying to help.

"Do not be too hard on yourself," Jory advises. "Remember, you intervened on my behalf as well. If it were not for your arrows, or your hound, I might have been killed. With that being said, I'm afraid Daveth is correct. You cannot rely on your bow and arrows when the enemy is close, not without endangering the rest of us."

"What – should I go for my sword next time, then?" The words come out as a mumble, embarrassing me further.

Daveth barks a laugh. "Me, I'll just hope for no next time. Fought packs of dogs before, but nothing like that. Not trying to shame you, neither. You get that, right? If you never done it yourself, no way you'd know what to do. Now you done it. Now you know."

"Exactly," Jory says, although he's clearly winding up for a bit of a lecture. "It was clear to me that both you _and_ Ser Alistair lack experience fighting against wolves. I presume that inexperience extends to fights against dogs, as well."

Behind, I hear Alistair snort. He doesn't interrupt, though given his ill-disguised dislike of Jory, I imagine he's biting his tongue. How can he? Jory had to catch him when he stumbled, too.

It's all a bit embarrassing, actually. All three of us, to varying degrees, dislike Jory, and yet he's unquestionably saved our lives this morning.

"As with any fight," Jory continues, pretending not to have heard, "our tactics will be dictated by the enemy. If the wolves had charged across an open field, for example, there might have been time for you to fire several arrows before drawing your sword. Or, if you'd had time to find higher ground, where they couldn't reach you, we could've fought with blades while you picked them off. The same would be true if there were more of us, enough to form a line, with archers in the rear…"

About then, I stop listening. I'm thinking instead of the family sword, sheathed across my back, just beneath my bow. Even when I fell, I didn't draw it – I went for the short sword at my hip. And if I'm being honest, I'd have pulled my boot knife, too, before thinking of the blade on my back.

It's easiest to tell myself that I didn't draw the longsword because I don't know how to use one. And that's partly true – I've trained with knives and short swords, sometimes both at the same time, and I'm quite good with a bow and arrow. But I've also had the opportunity to use a longsword – it was offered me almost every night since we left Highever, during our drills with Duncan – yet, whenever possible, I've declined.

There's an undeniable weight to the weapon, heavier than metal and sheath alone could possibly be. Yet there's also a comfort to its presence, like it's an anchor of sorts, a tether to my old life. It feels like it belongs on my back, in other words, but not in my hand.

This is a paradox I'll have to square myself with sooner or later, I think, but not now.

For now, I check the short sword at my waist. Daveth sees, and nods approvingly. Next to him, Jory's still talking, oblivious to the fact that no one is listening.

…

 **Jory doesn't shut up until we find another body.** This one belongs to an ox, one whose belly has been torn open, spilling entrails across the path. The remains of a leather harness hang in tatters from the beast's shoulders, though I can't tell whether the straps broke or were cut. Flies buzz over the wounds. I click my tongue reproachfully at Madra, who is quite interested in the fresh meat.

"Wolves?" Jory suggests, making a face as he steps over the ox's legs.

"Looks like." Daveth is nodding, but seems reluctant. "Why come after us, though, if they had this big fella to eat on?"

"Perhaps it is another ill effect of the Blight." Jory glances at Alistair. "They attacked us without reason, when the missionary's body was nearby. I don't think they were hunting for food."

We've come maybe a mile since the creek and the fight with the wolf pack, so it's not inconceivable the same creatures could have brought down this animal before turning their attention to us.

"You're not wrong," Alistair says slowly. He sounds distracted. He's past the ox too, but has stopped walking. He's looking ahead, squinting through the trees and underbrush. "Blighted animals do kill without reason. And they were nearby. All the same…I don't think this was done by wolves."

"You think… _they_ did this?" Jory asks, his voice steadier than I'd expect.

None of us have to ask what he means.

"I think so," Alistair replies evenly. "But if I'm right, we'll know soon enough."

"Are they nearby, then?"

"No. Not just yet, anyway. But I'm afraid they _were_."

He doesn't elaborate further, and none of us choose to ask.

…

 **Just beyond the ox's carcass,** the path twists south and dips, leading down into a dense tangle of fallen limbs and overgrown ferns. It's easy enough to follow, and the ground underfoot remains firm, but it's clear we're heading into the swamps. There's mud to either side of the path, and the underbrush crowds in so thick that we can only see a few yards ahead. At first I don't mind, but with every minute, I begin to feel more claustrophobic. Anything could be lurking in these bushes.

The only thing keeping me from drawing a weapon is Alistair's relative lack of concern. He's clearly on edge, but he's not moving with any hesitation, and his sword remains sheathed.

This seems to be enough to assuage any fear the others may feel. It'll have to be enough for me, too. It'll have to be, unless I'm willing to put my nerves on display, taking up my bow or drawing a sword when none of my companions see the need.

The temptation grows and grows, until I can practically feel the blood pounding in the tips of my fingers, demanding a weapon…

And then we're through, free of the brush. We've emerged at the edge of water, what looks to me like one enormous pond until I realize it is, in fact, two ponds, divided by a spit of land maybe a dozen paces wide. A land bridge, so straight that it could be man-made. Or elf-made, as old as this place feels. For some reason, my thoughts focus on this question. What natural phenomenon could have created such a perfect route for our path, over the water? What civilization could have built it? How long has it been here?

It's easier than processing the carnage that blankets the land bridge itself. Even Highever, with all its brutality, couldn't have prepared me for this, and though I know what I'm seeing, my eyes don't want to take it in. It's more than my mind can process.

The earth itself is dyed red, soaked with blood from the furthest point I can see on the land bridge, to the ground beneath my feet. And everywhere, there are bodies, strewn like fallen leaves, piled in places two or three deep. Many more float in the water.

The dead are all but unrecognizable. They are mangled perversions of the human form, meat and skin and bone and cloth and armor tangled and warped. Limbs are torn apart, torsos ripped open, faces smashed to bloody paste.

It's hard to tell, but I think I can see the king's livery on a few of the fallen. A shield bears the sigil of Denerim, Ferelden's capitol city. This must be the lost patrol, the one Sergeant Cormac spoke of at the gate.

That's something, at least: this isn't Fergus' patrol.

A cart blocks our path, turned on its side. It is half-submerged in the murky water, as is another ox. This one has had its head hacked off, mounted now on the wagon's side, blank eyes staring at us as we pass.

This excess was intentional. I don't want to see, but I can't help seeing. Seeing that bodies were ripped apart after they fell. Seeing symbols I don't recognize scrawled in blood on stones, on overturned carts, on the shields of the fallen. Seeing heads mounted on stakes, trophies of the slaughter.

Worse still, seeing that soldiers are not the only dead. See there are pack animals, and men, and women. They were dressed in furs, and carried heavy packs. Some had infants swaddled tight. There are dogs, too – shaggy, lithe shepherds. And there are children, too.

Chasind Wilders. They must be. A tribe, fleeing the darkspawn, like the refugees we passed on the Highway, or the tribesmen in Rigby's notes. Cut down like cattle, then torn apart like mice worried by a cat.

Their possessions are scattered among their corpses. Clothes, dried meat, and root vegetables. Tools and firewood, blankets and poultry. Everything they owned, I think.

Beside me, Daveth begins to retch.

I hear metal slide free of leather as Jory draws his sword.

Alistair waves him off. "They're not here anymore," he says. "Not far now, but they're no threat to us, not yet."

Jory ignores this; so do I. This is easier to face, somehow, with bow in hand, arrow nocked. I leave my sword at my waist; though I remember Daveth's reproach, this land bridge is a perfect bottleneck, exactly the type of terrain I could exploit as an archer.

It helps a little to focus on that – to think of what I'll do if they show themselves.

It's better than looking at the bodies.

But the bodies are everywhere. No matter where I look, there is only horror. Ahead, pinned by spears to the side of a cart, a boy about Oren's age. Tiny, lifeless hands hang limp. At his feet, a tool he might have used to try to defend himself.

For an instant, I see Oriana's body, bloody on the stone floor, Oren beneath her. I blink back tears as rage starts to rise in my chest, choking out the fear and revulsion.

"Is this… this what they do?" Daveth's voice is ragged. "Is this what they are?"

Alistair doesn't answer. He's staring hard at another overturned wagon, maybe twenty yards ahead. So's Madra, a low growl starting at the back of her throat. Slowly, I raise the tip of my arrowhead, drawing back the string at the same time, ready for whatever threat presents itself.

But instead of a threat, a ragged figure begins to crawl from the shadows. A man, wearing an army hauberk that's dark with old blood.

"Over here…" His voice is strained but clear. "Don't…don't shoot. Please."

He has a gash on his forehead, a nasty cut that looks to have blinded one eye. As he pulls himself closer, one of his legs is drags along the ground uselessly, limp and heavy. Broken, I think.

With his good eye, he's staring at Alistair's shield.

"You're…you're Grey Wardens?"

"We are," Alistair says, recovering himself. "And _you're_ not half as dead as you look."

I continue to find his sense of humor, if you want to call it that, rather baffling.

Belying the insensitivity of his words, however, Alistair has sheathed his sword and moved to kneel beside the man.

In a much gentler tone, he asks, "What happened here, friend?"

The soldier winces, but with Alistair's help manages to sit up. Looking back at the wagon, he calls out, and another soldier emerges, this one uninjured save a nasty lump on his head. This second survivor carries a shield and axe and regards us cautiously for a moment before stepping aside, revealing a trio of small, dirty faces.

"By the Maker," Jory says, and rushes to the children, putting away his weapons as well. He has a child of his own, I remember. It's hard to despise him as he gathers the little ones close, touching their faces and checking them for injuries. He tries to keep them from looking around, but their wide eyes have already seen the worst of it, I think. This is just the aftermath.

They are not the only survivors, either. An old man with a thick beard crawls after the children, followed by two young women. One is pregnant, and the other has a baby swaddled against her chest. They must have been positively crammed underneath there. And for how long, I can only guess. The corpses look at least a day old to me.

The bearded Wilder stands with some difficulty, grimacing as he tries to straighten his back. He looks at the four of us warily, then shifts his gaze to the second soldier. "Safe?" he asks slowly.

"Safe," says the healthier soldier, nodding wearily.

"Safe…" agrees the wounded one, before looking back to Alistair. His remaining eye is hollow, but grateful. "Thank you," he says, and then slumps, his head falling back.

Alistair shakes him, firm but not rough. "Whoa! None of that! You hung on this long, friend. There's no sense in dying now."

The soldier makes a wheezing sound. I can't tell if he's fighting to stay conscious, or giving up.

"Should we -" I begin, then find I don't have the words. "Should I…is there anything we can do?"

Without looking at me, Alistair nods. "There's bandages in my pack. Could you manage getting them out for me? And Daveth? See if you can find something I can use to brace his leg. A spear shaft, maybe?" As gives these directions, Alistair pulls the wooden plug from his waterskin and lifts it to the soldier's lips. "There you go. Have a drink. Come on now…"

It's a bit awkward, opening and digging through Alistair's pack while it's still slung over his shoulder, not least because it hangs behind his shield. It's hard not to rush, knowing that a man's life may hang in the balance. I remind myself to slow down, be deliberate. To focus my breathing and push past the sense of urgency.

Soft, absorbent cloth, tightly wound. Taking care not to throw Alistair off balance, I remove the rolled bandage from his pack. It's secured with pins to three small, leather pouches. Medicine, I guess, thinking of the elfroot salve I got from Varren.

Behind me, I hear the crack of splintering wood. Daveth and the second soldier have pulled a plank from the side of the upturned cart.

The soldier is more alert, able to hold the waterskin himself while Alistair begins to work.

Soon the wound over his ruined eye has been cleaned and covered, and the broken plank lashed to his leg as a splint. Finally, Alistair offers him another of the medicine pouches.

"Drink a bit of this one. It'll taste awful, but it should help with the pain."

The soldier nods, accepting the medicine. He takes a swig, chokes, then takes another.

"Maker bless you all," he says. His voice is still ragged, but the words themselves are lucid.

"Don't bless us just yet," Alistair says. "Here, let's get you up first."

As gingerly as we can, we help the wounded man up. His leg is only braced, but won't hold any weight; Daveth, apparently, foresaw the problem, and hands him a makeshift crutch, rags strapped to a sturdy branch.

"Best I could do, mate," Daveth says.

The man winces as he puts his eight on the crutch, but nods his thanks.

Jory has gathered the children nearby, and stands over them protectively; they're peeking around his legs, studying Madra with a mixture of fear and wonder. The Wilder women are standing a bit further away, reluctant to trust Jory. Watching their body language, I'd wager none of the children are their own.

"Now," Alistair says, looking from one soldier to the next. "What happened here?"

"Darkspawn," says the wounded soldier, but offers no more.

His companion nods. "Aye. Darkspawn. Think they were tracking these Wilders. Our scouting band came across them – the Wilder, I mean – maybe two days back. We was on our way back to Ostagar when we did, and they was on their way outta the swamps. Said there was monsters after them. So we said they might as well come with us. Though they might show us a shortcut or two, share their food, and we might put up some protection. Shows what we knew." The soldier spits. "It was a fuckin' slaughter. They came outta the ground yesterday, maybe a mile back, while we was passing through the ruins."

"Ruins?" Alistair interrupts.

"Aye. Lot of old stones, what's left of walls I think. There's a great old dome out in the swamp, too. The Wilders said to us it was haunted out there, and we just laughed it off, but then they was on us. Most of our boys stayed back. Idea was to try to hold them there, at the ruins. A handful of us stayed with the families. Felt like shit, leaving our boys. Heard em screaming while we fuckin' ran. They caught us here. I took a knock on the head right quick, woke up under the wagon." He nods at the women. "Best I can figure, they saved my life. Darkspawn fuckers were gone by the time I came to. Killed everyone."

"No," the old man says firmly.

Alistair turns to him, arching one eyebrow. "It speaks."

"He's one of their elders, I gather," explains the soldier. "Don't say much in the common tongue, but he seems to understand it well enough."

"No," repeats the elder. "No kill…every. Some…some, them breaked. Breaked until dead. Long time. Make much screams."

We are surrounded by corpses torn to pieces, bodies flayed of skin, corpses desecrated. I don't want to think – can't think – that some were alive while this was done.

"Others…others, them taked," the elder continues, still fumbling over his words. "Taked… all the womans."

Alistair nods thoughtfully, studying the old man. "The darkspawn took your women? You're certain – only women, no men?"

The elder nods vigorously. "Womans. Womans only. No mans."

For a few moments, no one says anything. I think we all share a sense of foreboding. Though I've no idea why darkspawn would be abducting human women – and though I doubt anyone else, except maybe Alistair, knows either – it can mean nothing good. Each possibility seems worse than the next, and I turn my mind away as quickly as I can.

For is part, Alistair studies ground pensively. He mutters something, then straightens. "I'll speak to Duncan of this on our return," he says to us. Well, mostly it looks like he's talking to me. To the soldier, he says: "Ostagar is only a few hours north of here. Perhaps the elder can guide you. If not, keep the guide stones on your left until you're out of the wood. Then follow–"

"We know the way from here," the soldier interrupts.

"Surely we're not sending them alone?" Jory asks.

I'm wondering the same thing myself.

"What else would we do?" Alistair asks. "Your vials are empty, aren't they? And we still have the treaties to recover."

"You would have us send children through darkspawn-infested woods, escorted only by injured men?" Jory is incredulous, and more than a little outraged. "Surely this is not the way that Wardens conduct themselves?"

"There are no darkspawn north of here," Alistair says, sounding a bit irritated. "And unless I fell asleep for a few days, you're not a Warden yet."

"Nor will I become one if we continue any further, by the sounds of this man's tale! You heard him – an entire patrol of seasoned men, together with a tribe of Wilders, all slaughtered by darkspawn!"

The outrage now borders on hysteria. Soldiers and Wilders alike are looking on with concern.

"Calm down, Ser Jory!" Alistair exclaims, wheeling on him. The young warden takes a deep breath, then proceeds in a tone of forced calm. "We'll be fine if we're careful, and I promise to be careful."

Jory is having none of it. Looking around, seeing what the beasts did to this caravan – it's hard to blame him.

"These men were careful, and they were still overwhelmed! How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? Or need I remind you there is an entire _army_ in these forests?"

"Yes, there _are_ darkspawn about," Alistair says, like he's talking to a child, "but whatever happened to these poor bastards happened more than a day ago. We're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde now."

Whether out of fear or indignation, I can't tell, but Jory is past reasoning with. "How do you know any of that?!" he demands. I think he's one provocation from putting a hand on his sword, standing as he is between Alistair and the Wilder children, like he's guarding them from an attack. Whatever respect he had for Alistair's leadership is either discarded or forgotten.

This is not the time for any of this.

I step in from the side, resting a hand on Jory's shoulder. He looks at me, and his eyes are wild, but they hold my gaze willingly.

"Alistair's already told us, he can sense them." My voice is calm, like I'm talking to a spooked horse or a frightened child. "We're only looking for a few, enough to finish off ourselves. And if we find we've bitten off more than we can chew, the four of us can fight our way out of trouble more easily than a company of men escorting families and wagons."

Jory's nodding now, starting to focus. "I'm not a coward," he says, to himself more than me.

"I know," I say, though for the first time, I'm not so sure.

"Still, I do not relish the thought of blundering through these swamps, in danger of encountering an army. It strikes me as foolish and reckless, not least when there are those who would benefit from our help."

In my periphery, I see the soldier's nodding. I'm not unsympathetic to their plight, nor do I entirely disagree with Jory's assessment. But I'm also reasonably sure that nothing short of full-scale mutiny against Alistair will result in our returning to camp with empty vials. Even then, Duncan might just send us back out again. Or clap us in irons and brand us traitors, for that matter.

"You can put it all fancy-like," Daveth says, almost drawling.

I know what's coming next, I just don't know how to stop it.

"But to my ears, though, it _sounds_ like what a coward would say, don't it?"

Jory bristles, spinning away from me to face Daveth. Any good I did, trying to calm the knight, Daveth has undone in an instant.

"Stop it! Both of you!" Alistair snaps, finally taking control of the situation. "Know this, if you've somehow forgotten: all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they will not take us by surprise." He looks at the nearby soldiers now, and lowers his voice. "That's why I'm here," he explains, calming them now. "I sensed none of the beasts during the journey from Ostagar, and I sense none to our north now. The way back is clear, and the way ahead is not blocked by an army. It's just past sunset now; if you men set out quickly, even with injuries and children to slow you, you'll arrive well before dawn. You know the way up the cliff?"

Both soldiers nod, and so does the elder.

"Then you're only wasting time," Alistair says, though not unkindly. "Good luck to you, and we'll see you back at camp."

The soldiers begin to confer with the elder, who points back the way we've come. The Wilder woman herd the children together, watching expectantly.

Still smirking, Daveth sidles up beside Jory, who is staring conflictedly at the Wilder children.

"See, ser knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first."

"How very reassuring," Jory says through gritted teeth. The sarcasm catches me surprise – though he's clearly, it's also the closest Jory's come to anything resembling a sense of humor.

His face a mask, Jory pushes past me and Daveth, then past the elder and the women as well. He goes to his knees again before the Wilder children, who regard him uncertainly. He puts his arms out, as though about to pull them into a hug. Instead, he keeps his arms outstretched and begins to chant a prayer that sounds vaguely familiar.

"In the name of Holy Andraste, born of this land, I bless you today. May you find favor in the eyes of the Maker, He who made Andraste His bride and blessed our lands with His grace… "

As Jory's voice continues to drone, the Wilders and soldiers gather round, watching with varying degrees of confusion or irritation. His display of piety is delaying Fereldens and heathens alike, and no one is happy about it.

Alistair beckons to me and Daveth, stepping several yards away.

"We need to hurry," Alistair says in a low voice. "Is he going to be a problem?"

"Buggered if I know," Daveth says, and rolls his eyes. "Like these savages give two shakes about the Maker. Wilders got their own gods, don't they? Fuckin' imbecile, you ask me."

I just shrug. Though I've done my best to support Alistair, the whole expedition has struck me as pointless from the start. Now, it seems to me, we're surrounded by atrocity and sliding headfirst into lunacy.

And Alistair, for his part, seems stubbornly unwilling to abandon our errand, yet also unable or unwilling to take control. Whether he's afraid of setting Jory off, or of offending the Maker by interrupting a prayer, I don't know, but in either case, the effect is the same – we're all standing her, thumbs up our asses, watching Jory kneel in the midst of a field of carnage, praying over children who probably can't understand a word he's saying, while wounded soldiers and a gaggle of Wilders look on.

I want no part of this.

Something's got to give.

We need to get this done, get the hell out of here, get back to Ostagar.

But before we can do that, we need a plan. A direction.

"How much further to the old archive?" I ask, gesturing at Alistair's map.

Grateful to have something constructive to do, Alistair unrolls the parchment and shows it to me. The lines are dark, maybe charcoal. It takes a moment of searching, but the land bridge between the two ponds is easy enough to spot. Just to the south, a larger pond contains a drawing of an old dome, and past that is a faint X, marked with different ink than the rest of the map.

Alistair points at this marker. "About a mile from here, if I'm reading this right. Maybe two."

We're close. A bit of good news, at least.

"I'll be back," I say, and set off toward the soldiers.

They're standing just apart from the Wilders, one wincing, the other fidgeting. They both nod at me as I approach.

"While we're waiting," I say, trying to keep my tone even. "Can either of you tell me about the ruins you spoke of, where the darkspawn attacked? How much further?"

The uninjured man nods. "Just past the edge of the pond. Can't miss em. They looked dwarf-made to me, not Tevinter. Except the dome in the middle of the lake – don't know that I ever heard of dwarves making domes."

"Dwarven? Did you – do you think they connect to the Deep Roads?"

I'm a novice at best with this Grey Warden business, but I know that much, at least – darkspawn come from the Deep Roads, and the dwarves built the Deep Roads.

The soldier catches my drift, nodding grimly.

"Nothing I seen, but who knows. We didn't exactly go nosing around inside."

"Fair enough. What about anything with a Grey Warden crest – the griffon?"

"I know the crest," he says. "But no, nothing like that, not that I saw." His eyes narrow. "What all are you lot up to?"

"Damned I know." It's an honest response. "One last question – your patrol. You boys aren't from Highever, are you?"

He shakes his head. "Mostly regular army, from around Denerim. Everybody was still waiting on the boys from Highever when we set out."

"Thanks," I say, and clap him on the shoulder.

Behind me, Jory's prayer seems to have shifted from the children to the dead.

"…may you who have given your lives in service of Andraste's birthplace, find solace by the Maker's side."

Surprising me, the wounded soldier says "Amen," his voice reverent. Whatever he thought earlier, he seems to have appreciated Jory's blessing over his fallen comrades.

Benediction complete, Jory opens his eyes, then stands. He looks at Alistair and nods, though I can't tell whether it's permissive or deferential.

Almost in unison, we all begin to move: the refugees and the two surviving soldiers walking northward, herding the children with them; the four of us and the dog, pressing deeper into the Wilds. And as we go, I think all of us feel the weight of sightless eyes, of soldiers and families who will never leave this place, watching us from tattered faces and sundered bodies.


	12. What We Do

**CHAPTER ELEVEN:** _What We Do_

 **For some time after leaving the massacre,** we walk in silence. What is there to say, after all? Nothing I've seen in my life – not even the violence and heartbreak of Highever's fall, as devastating as it has been – nothing could have prepared me for the darkspawn.

Howe's treachery, the sack of my home, the deaths of so many I love – these things nearly destroyed me. I will carry the pain, I think, as long as I live. But on some level, I can understand what happened there. Rationalize it, at least. It fits within the framework of humanity's darker nature, of politics and power and sin.

The slaughter behind us, however, cannot be understood or rationalized. It is unrecognizable. Unfathomable. Utterly inhuman. Evil for evil's sake.

It's hard to imagine the others are less shaken. As well as I've come to know him these last week's, it's easy to read the shock on his face. Even Alistair, if he has seen such things before, does not strike me as a hard enough man to be unaffected.

Only Madra seems unconcerned. She romps ahead, nose to the ground, crisscrossing from pond to pond, occasionally running back to loop around my ankles before bounding away again. It's almost enough to calm my nerves. Honestly, at this point, I'm following her more than Alistair. I trust her nose more than a map, and certainly more than ill-defined sixth sense gifted to Wardens.

The isthmus we've been walking on since the site of the massacre begins to broaden, opening up to more woods as the lakes grow further apart. Our path curves left, following close to the shore at first, then weaving between clusters of large ferns and winding brambles, before returning to the lake again.

We're heading east now, I think. Maybe southeast.

It's hard to tell.

Jory falls into step beside me, then clears his throat. "May I walk with you?"

He sounds almost sheepish.

I nod.

"Still no sword?" he asks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not…you're not carrying a sword."

This again. He's right, though. My sword is still at my side. I'm carrying the bow, and arrow nocked. "I haven't forgotten what you said. I'll go for a blade if they get close." I'm not really sure why I'm humoring him. "Out here, we'll see them coming. I can drop a few and still have time to switch."

"I understand."

I'm not sure if that means he agrees, or if he's just acknowledging me. I'm not sure why he brought this up at all. At this point, I really don't care.

"Do you think me a fool?" he asks. "For praying over those children, I mean, or over the dead."

The time it takes me to form my response probably says more than my eventual response. "Not a fool," I reply, carefully. "The truth is, I'm not especially religious. I don't understand the…etiquette, I guess you'd say. I think the only concern was the – the timing. The place, maybe."

He seems on the verge of letting the conversation drop, remaining silent for several beats, before continuing in a rush. "I believe you're right, Liam. It's as you said: if you are not religious, you would not understand. I doubt the others would, either. But I believe there is no time when it is unwise to seek the Maker's blessings, nor any time when we ought not to seek His guidance."

There's not much I can say, so I just shrug. He's driving toward something, I think.

"Tell me…" Jory continues slowly. "Do you have any clear picture of what this Joining entails?"

"Only that it's dangerous. It must be. Otherwise, why all the secrecy?"

"You don't find it odd, then? That no one told us of the ritual before we were recruited? I fought hard to be here; impressing Duncan was no easy task. Now I wonder if I chose correctly. We may die today, all of us, on some fool's errand. Never seeing my wife or child again…I knew the cost when I asked to join the Wardens. Yet I never imagined they would ask me to throw my life away searching for baubles, far from battle, nor abandon children in a wilderness. I fear now what will be asked of us next. Surely, you must have asked yourself the same?"

Again, I shrug. "I wouldn't be here if there'd been any other options."

Jory begins to nod emphatically. "Yes! That in itself is troubling, is it not? Remember, I was witness to your recruitment. Duncan may not have invoked the Rite of Conscription, but do not think it an exaggeration to say he coerced your pledge."

"That's not what I meant. I had a choice. This just happened to be the best of a bad bunch."

"Was it?" Jory sighs. "Surely coercion is not too strong a word, when he bargained your nephew's life against your oath?"

"Except he _didn't_." I'm a bit surprised to find myself defending Duncan, but fair's fair, I guess. "He promised to help whether I joined or not. All he said was that he could do _more_ to bring Howe down if I were a Warden."

"Your memory of that night may be better than mine," Jory says, reluctantly. "But even by your account, he held justice hostage to extract your pledge. Surely, this gives you some pause?"

"It did," I admit. "At first, I resented him for putting a higher priority on this Blight, or whatever it is, than on justice for my family. Now…" I shrug uncomfortably, and gesture back the way we've come. I'm not sure why I'm explaining myself to Jory. "What we just saw, it puts Howe to shame. It's hard to judge Duncan for judging treason as the lesser evil."

"I do not believe in lesser evils," Jory replies softly, almost automatically. He sighs again, then continues. "You must understand, I do not question Duncan's motives. I saw the same tragedy you did.

He has a seemingly impossible task, with a scarce handful of Grey Wardens, yet he does not complain, nor flinch from his duty. Yet I do fear the methods he may choose. I fear what else he might do, or cause to be done, for the sake of victory."

"What is it that worries you?" I ask. "Alistair already told us the Joining is blessed by the Chantry."

"And yet it is a ritual that requires Circle mages, and blood!" Jory shakes his head adamantly. "No good comes when mixing blood and magic, and I can imagine of no righteous purpose for the blood of an abomination. Since we left Ostagar, I've tried to puzzle this out, to understand what the Joining might require of us. Each theory proves worse than the last."

"Well, we'll know soon enough." It's not that I disagree with him, I suppose. I'm just tired of his pessimism. "Until then, worrying won't help anything."

Jory grunts, apparently concluding the conversation. Fine with me. He continues to walk beside me when the path is wide enough, but we walk in silence.

As we go, the terrain changing slowly from the flat expanse of ancient forest to hills and valleys. There are fewer and fewer of the great evergreens that towered at the bottom of the cliffs, or drove up from the swamps we first passed. In their place, we encounter thick clusters of ferns, sprawling brambles, and stands of thin, sickly-looking trees with pale, peeling bark. And still the path goes on, drifting back and forth between lake and forest, never ranging too far from the water's edge.

…

" **Would you look at that!"** Daveth is pointing out across the lake.

The path has just brought us back down to the shore. Perhaps a hundred yards out, a large dome rises from the water. I squint, trying to make out its detail. A haze hangs over the water, obscuring my view, and though it must be close to noon, the light is strangely flat. Still, I think I can see faded tiles and exposed beams – a half-submerged roof, the remnant of a building swallowed up long ago.

The soldier said they were ambushed near a sunken dome.

He mentioned Dwarven ruins, too. We've passed ancient stonework, something more than boulders. Though covered with moss and crumbled by time, the ruins look angular, crude. They _could_ be Dwarven, I suppose, though nothing about them stands out.

Still, I'm unsettled. Whatever happened, wherever the majority of the scouting party made their stand, it can't have happened far from here. I expect we'll find more corpses soon.

…

 **I'm not wrong.** We're climbing away from the lake again, up the side of a hill, when Madra and Alistair give simultaneous warnings – hers a growl, his a hissed demand for silence.

We freeze in place, fingers tightening around weapons.

The air around us is silent. There ought to be crickets and frogs, I think – at least some of the bugs that plagued us an hour ago. But nothing moves, and there is no sound except the distant lap of water and a slow, rhythmic creaking that I can't quite place. It brings to mind the belfry in the Highever Chantry, or the sailing vessels in the harbor.

Ropes. That's the sound I'm hearing. Ropes, stretched tight and swaying in the wind.

As soon as I realize this, I know what we're about to find. I know before we're close enough to see.

Ahead, the path leads through a dip at the hill's crest. On one side, the hill is covered in rubble, the remains, I think, of an old watchtower. On the opposite side, a tree once stood. It toppled long ago, its moss-covered trunk bridging over the top of the dip. The path will take us directly beneath the fallen tree.

The darkspawn chose this place deliberately. They wanted anyone who came this way to see their handiwork. To pass under it, if we dare.

At least a dozen soldiers have been strung up, though most were surely dead before they hung. They are missing eyes or limbs, or sometimes both, and all have suffered grievous injuries. Between the men, there are individual body parts, too, arranged like macabre ornaments.

"Look there," Alistair says, though we don't need prompting. "Poor sods. That just seems so…excessive."

"Are they still nearby?" Jory asks.

Alistair frowns, concentrating like he's testing the air. Then he nods. "Not far now."

"How close?" I ask.

Alistair hesitates again, before admitting, "It's not a _precise_ sense, exactly. I can tell they're close, but I couldn't tell you how many yards."

"They're within yards?" Jory demands, near panic, his voice rising almost to a squeak. It'd be easy to think less of him, but I'm no less fearful.

"No, I – that's not what I meant," Alistair says. A sheen of sweat on his forehead undercuts the confidence he's trying to project. "They're close, but not that close. And before you ask, no, I can't tell exactly how many. There's more than a dozen. Maybe two or three dozen? No more than that, I think."

"Oh, good," Daveth mutters, apparently not reassured. "No more than three dozen. Well, that's just fucking perfect, isn't it?"

Jory hisses at him to shut up. It's the right tactical choice, but I find I agree with Daveth's assessment. Fuck this. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be here.

Walking under that log, beneath the bodies and limbs of men already slaughtered by our enemy, isn't an appealing prospect to begin with; knowing darkspawn are nearby, and in no small number, only adds to our mounting paranoia. Even Madra seems cowed, her hackles up and a low growl continuing at the back of her throat.

There's nothing for it, though. We go forward or we go back. And none of us are willing to go back, not alone at least. So there's only one choice.

It's pride, really, that pushes me forward, fear of being called a coward. It's certainly not courage, and certainly not commitment to our purpose, because it's increasingly hard to argue that Jory's wrong in his fears, about our chances out here and about the wisdom of our mission, especially with corpses overhead, and these ridiculous treaties so deep in this wretched place, and only four of us, four men and a Mabari, against dozens of these monsters, the same monsters that butchered an entire patrol, a patrol and an entire tribe…

But then we're through, or at least out from under the log and the bodies.

We're greeted by more of the darkspawn's bloody handiwork. The path ahead is lined with pikes, each crowned with a disembodied head. Mostly soldiers, a few Wilders mixed in. As though decapitation alone was not enough, many of the faces have been mutilated further – eyes gouged out, mouths widened, skin peeled back.

I look away, squeeze my eyes shut. It's too much. I don't want to see any more.

"They're coming," Alistair announces, quite matter-of-factly.

For a second, I'm grateful. Anything to distract me from the horrors all around. I start sidestepping on instinct, moving right and back at the same time, toward one of the rises we've just passed between, toward higher ground. Good position will let me kill a few more before they reach us.

Choose the spot on which you fight. That was one of the first lessons I learned on Highever's training grounds, just a little boy with wooden weapons, giddy to become a warrior – back when war wasn't real, back when violence was play.

To my surprise, the others follow me. Daveth shadows my steps almost as tightly as Madra, hissing something about remembering to pull my sword. Alistair is close behind, but stumbles on a root and fails to catch himself, his sword getting tangled with his shield. Jory, furthest from me now, moving with deliberate slowness and practiced confidence, somehow manages to help Alistair to his feet without lowering his own guard.

It's easy to be put off Jory's manner, even more so by his constant complaints, but there's no denying the knight's skill.

Just as Alistair is back on his feet, an unearthly screech cuts through the silence. At first there is only one voice, a grating ululation that sets saws against my bones. Then, one by one, echoes rise from all around, a hideous chorus that seems born of earth and stone and air. I want to cover my ears, close my eyes again.

An instant later, I see the first of them, a dark shape loping toward us along the path with inhuman speed. I'm not sure where it came from. Even as fast as its moving, I should have seen it coming sooner.

Gangly legs throw the beast forward in great strides, while sharp, grotesquely long arms grasp ahead, pinning into the ground as anchors for the next leap. It's ungainly, a lopsided skitter that should slow the beast down. There's no way it should be moving this faster, as fast as a horse at full gallop. Faster, maybe.

My first arrow is loosed without thought, whistling down the hill. I know it finds its mark – the creature wails, and one of its legs misses a step, almost tripping it up – but the thing barely slows.

"Shrieks!" Alistair yells, as I draw another arrow.

 _Sharlocks,_ Duncan called them. Darkspawn skirmishers.

They're swarming the path, rushing us. I can't get a count. There are too many, moving too fast. My eye doesn't want to follow them. They get lost, somehow, against the backdrop of trees and ferns and boulders.

I try to find the one I've already wounded, hoping a second arrow will bring it down, but I can't find it.

The nearest, then.

Maker, it's so close already. I've got seconds until it's on me.

Breathe, release.

It recoils as the arrow finds a home, but doesn't go down.

They're almost on us. Still wailing, a sound that pierces my ears, waters my eyes.

This is happening so fast. I'm moving on instinct. Training takes over, but I've never trained for anything like this.

One more arrow, then to blades.

At my ankle, I feel Madra tense for an instant, then burst forward.

She hits the new beast in the knees as my arrow takes it in a shoulder. Dog and darkspawn go down in a tangle of movement.

There's no time for another shot, I know that. But I thought I'd have time to sling my bow, draw a sword.

I'm too slow.

The next of the Shrieks is already in midair, hurtling toward me.

Time doesn't slow, exactly. Instead, it's like individual moments freeze, the whole world stopping for a breath, before rocketing forward.

Crystallized in one such moment, I see the Shriek for the first time. Really see it.

The creature's face is covered almost entirely by a crude metal helmet that rises to a spike above its forehead. I can see eyes, glowing blackness, and I can see a mouth that's too large, almost canine in its shape, lined with sharp yellow teeth that are open wide, so wide it seems in that instant that they might swallow me whole.

Blindly, I throw out my hands, using the bow like a ward.

The Shriek hits me. Hard. Time splinters again, and I could swear we're colliding and falling apart at the same time.

The bow splinters in my hand, and the force of the impact knocks me off my feet.

I'm sprawling backwards, suspended in midair.

Something sharp passes directly in front of my face, my life spared by a matter of inches.

There's a sudden, intense pressure on my right shoulder, a grip I couldn't shake even if I were on my feet. It yanks me to the side, so I'm no longer falling but instead flailing through the air.

Still spinning, I hit the dirt, pinwheeling across shrubs and roots. The pressure is gone.

As I roll, something sharp rakes across the back of my thigh. I feel my breeches tear and a wound open, but I can't tell how bad.

Before I've stopped rolling, I pull my knees and elbows in, pushing off the ground. I come to my feet, still staggering with my own momentum. As I stumble, I draw my sword. I manage to stay upright.

My leg is bleeding, but it holds my weight. That's enough for now.

The Shriek is yards away, crouched on all fours. It's turning toward me, its eyes already fixed on mine. Those eyes. How can something so black burn so bright?

All around, the darkspawn are still shrieking. I can hear shouts from my companions, the clash of steel, Madra growling.

The Shriek lunges again, slashing with its forearms as it twists through the air. Only they're not forearms – they're long, serrated gauntlet that are begin at the elbows and extend well forward of the beast's hands. Made for driving down and through, or for flailing at masses of enemies. Not for precision.

I roll forward again, under the arc of the gauntlets, but I'm clumsy, and instead of passing the darkspawn, I smash into its legs.

As the Shriek collapses on top of me, I'm startled by how light it is. The speed, the ferocity, the unnatural way it moved – I expected a powerhouse. Instead, even in its armor, I'm able not just to push it off me with enough force to throw the creature several feet.

Not without cost. I feel another cut open, this one my left shoulder, slowed but not deflected by my leather hauberk. I couldn't see what got me, but I think it must have been the tip of a gauntlet, a luck strike as the Shriek was hurled away.

The wound isn't bad, but it throws my off balance, and instead of rising to my feet, I end up scrambling sideways, bumping over one of the large rocks on the hillside before hauling myself upright.

Dizzied, I search wildly for the Shriek, knowing it will lunge again, but not knowing where it will lunge _from_. My vision begins to swim, pressure in my temples tightening with every heartbeat.

I gasp for air, no idea what's going on – if I hit my head on the rock and didn't notice, or have lost more blood than I think.

For an instant I'm nauseous, but then the fear cuts through the nausea, and my surroundings snap back into focus.

Alistair is yelling at me. He not far away. Just ahead. "Draw the sword!"

I look up, see him standing over the Shriek that wounded me. It's on its knees, facing me, its head lolling to one side as Alistair pulls his own sword from its neck.

The darkspawn topples, black blood gushing over its crude breastplate. The same blood, almost as black as the creature's eyes, drenches Alistair almost from head to toe, like he was caught in a rain storm, or bathed in the stuff.

Yet his eyes are bright.

Behind him, the hillside is littered with corpses. At least a half dozen Shrieks, all dead. All killed by Alistair, I realize. The same young man who nearly fell into the wolves – who can't do more crack wise when Jory challenges his authority, who can barely read a map.

He killed them all.

Fuck me, I think he's grinning.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" he yells, and he sounds positively joyful. "Draw the sword! What're you waiting for, a written invitation?"

Numbly, I reach for my family's blade, still scabbarded across my back. My fingers close on the pommel, but even before I've got a grip, I see another of the Shrieks rising behind Alistair, one gauntlet drawn back, already midway through its leap.

Though I'm too far away to reach him, I draw my sword and begin to run. As I go, I scream a warning. It's incoherent, but I think he should see the danger in my face, see where I'm looking.

But he doesn't. The grin doesn't leave his face, not even as the Shriek brings down the point of its gauntlet, the cruel metal piercing the back of Alistair's neck.

Except it doesn't. There's no scream of pain, no rush of crimson.

At the last possible instant, Alistair shifts his weight, pivots his shoulders. Without looking, he drives his sword backwards, locking his shield under the sword's guard, and lets the Shriek impale itself.

Gracefully, like a dancer, Alistair steps back, the Shriek rolling, lifeless, off his blade and down the hill, back toward the rest of the fight.

Daveth and Jory are down there, back-to-back. One of the Shrieks is dead at their feet; another lies motionless nearby, where I think I last saw Madra, the broken shaft of my arrow still lodged in its torso.

The others are circling, just like the wolves earlier, though these are fewer in number. Four, by my count.

I start to whistle, hoping Madra is still on her feet, but almost before I can whet my lips, Alistair bellows a challenged and rushes down the slope.

Sluggishly, pain beginning to blossom in my leg and shoulder, I follow, trying to keep the heavy longsword in a high guard. The whistle dies in my lungs, and I've no battle cry to join Alistair's.

Two of the Shrieks break off immediately, each swinging away wide, planning to come in on either of Alistair's flanks, one from each side.

After what I've just seen – the swath of dead darkspawn that Alistair's left in his wake – I ought not to fear for him. I ought to laugh at the Shrieks.

But I've trained too long to let one face two alone. I turn slightly, so I'll intercept the one on the left if I can only get there in time. I should be able to. I'm barely running, and its downhill, and the injury on my leg can't be that bad, can it? But there's nothing left in me, no reserve of strength to call upon.

My sword arm falters and my feet start to land too far ahead of themselves, fighting just to keep my body upright.

This will be a fine way to die, I think: tumbling past my enemy and slamming face-first into a tree trunk.

But the nearest Shriek sees me and decides I'm worthy prey. It plants one gauntlet in the earth and using it as an anchor on which to pivot, adjusting course so that it's running straight at me.

There's only a moment to prepare before we smash together. I have just enough time to tilt to the longsword, angling the blade so that even as the strength in my arms fails, I parry the first strike from a gauntlet.

The impact as we collide nearly knocks the wind from me, but somehow I stay upright. The Shriek, off balance, tumbles to the dirt just a few feet away. It's just outside the reach of my sword, so I stumble after the creature, hoping I can cut it down quickly, before the last of my strength fades, before it rises and strikes again.

And then Madra is there, pinning the creature to the ground with her weight, savaging one exposed arm, growling over the sound of tearing flesh.

The Shriek squirms and bucks, trying to break free, but Madra is too big, too tenacious, and the Shriek's only remaining weapon, the gauntlet strapped to its opposite arm, is too clumsy to strike at a target so close.

Even as weak as I am, it's no challenge to stagger forward and plunge my sword into the gap at the base of the helmet. My family's blade cuts straight down, separating its jaws, driving its thick, forked tongue back into its spine.

The beast shivers once, then goes still.

Madra loses interest immediately. She drops the Shriek's arm and turns to look up at me adoringly.

 _Two fights in one day!_ She couldn't be happier.

Behind me, I hear only labored breathing. No more shouts. No more weapons. No more of unearthly cries from the darkspawn.

I stumble forward until I hit a tree trunk, then use its support to turn.

The last three Shrieks are dead. Jory is already cleaning his sword, Daveth filling one of the vials Duncan gave us.

Alistair is striding toward me. There's a confidence to him that I don't recognize. Not the smug cockiness when he jokes, or the sarcasm that hides his inexperience. Genuine confidence. He looks more alive than I've ever seen him.

"Let's take a look at that," he says, nodding at my shoulder.

I glance down, expecting to see a clean notch in the leather armor, a gash opened on my arm.

Instead, the armor is mangled, like it was caught in a trap, and though there's very little blood, there are four or five separate holes in the cloth of my sleeve. I have to stare for a few moments before I realize that I'm not looking at a cut.

I'm looking at a bite.

"Oh…shit…"

"Sit down," Alistair says. When I don't move, he grabs my elbow, forcing me to slide down the trunk. "He got you, all right. Lucky for you, you're already halfway to being a Warden."

"What…what's that got to do with it?"

My ass hits roots and dirt, and pain spasms through my shoulder.

As the adrenaline fades, I can feel the muscles near the bite tightening and swelling. I want to curl my arm in toward my body, but Alistair has a hold of my wrist. He's kneeling on it, I think, as he rummages again in his pack.

I try to focus, but my vision swims again. My arm feels swollen, like my sleeve is suddenly too tight. The pain in my temples is back.

"What…what's happening…"

My breathing quickens as I begin to put things together.

A bite.

The Taint.

"Am I… is it…?"

"It's poison," Alistair says, rather too cheerfully for my taste. "But it won't kill you. At least, I don't think it will..."

Then his hands are on my wound, and suddenly the pain is incredibly sharp, like a hot iron stuck straight to my bone.

I throw my head back and scream, just once. Then blackness closes in, and my head drops to one side, away from the injury.

I think I hear Alistair saying something, still nonchalant. His tone is disorienting. I think I hear Daveth and Jory speaking, but it's like hearing through water. It's hard to make out the words…hard to focus. I think I feel Madra, snuffling in my ear. Her warm breath centers me for a moment. My vision might be coming back. There are shadows that could be the rocks and trees on the hillside...

But then the world spins again, and though I know Madra is still there, I can no longer feel her. Noises warp and distend, turning into a dull hum that fades to silence. The only thing I can feel is the pain in my shoulder, until that, too, ebbs.

The shadows around me are swallowed up, and the world drifts away.

…

 **And then its back,** in one great rush of sound and pain and light.

"…be fine," Alistair is saying. To me, I think. "The medicine will control the pain, and slow the infection. You've got a few days before we have to worry about anything else, and by then…well, the Joining will take care of you before we have to worry about that."

I blink once, and the world snaps into focus.

Madra is curled at my side, her head resting on my lap. She might be asleep.

Beyond my dog, I can see that my leg is bandaged where the Shriek cut me. I flex my foot, and find there's no real pain, just a bit of stiffness.

Jory and Daveth are nearby; it looks like they're wiping their hands on a rag, though I can't for the life of me think why they'd be cleaning themselves right now.

Madra looks up as I shift my leg. She studies my face for a moment, then blows out a long sigh that makes her lips flap. Her expression is somewhere between relief and reproach, but as soon as she stands, she licks my face affectionately, her little stub of a tail wagging fiercely.

"What…" I have to stop talking and turn away to keep from getting Madra's tongue in my mouth. "What happened?"

"One of the Shrieks bit you," Alistair says.

He offers me a hand, pulls me upright. Gingerly, I shift my weight until it's evenly balanced on both feet. My leg holds up just fine.

"Oh, that," Alistair says, nodding at the bandage. "That's barely a scratch. The bite on your shoulder is a bit more serious. That's what made you pass out. Well, actually, the medicine is probably what made you pass out."

"It's that bad?" I ask.

"Well, yes, technically. Yes and no. I think you were in shock more than anything else. You'd have come to in a minute even without my help, but a darkspawn bite is serious business all the same. You remember what we said about darkspawn's blood, how it can spread the Taint? Their bites do the same thing. Shock aside, that's a nasty wound. Still, you'll be all right for now."

The Taint. That was one of my last thoughts before I passed out.

"Is it…did it get… _in_ me?"

"It? You mean the Taint? Yes, it's in the wound."

The words land like blows. I want to throw up, and the world becomes dangerously wobbly again. It's a fight to keep my legs under me.

"Whoa there!" Daveth, whose presence I'd almost forgotten, catches my shoulder. His hand keeps me upright. "You're all right, now. You're all right."

I nod shakily, and after a moment he lets me go.

Alistair is still studying me. He looks a bit skeptical.

"Am I…was I becoming a ghoul?"

"Ah. No, no you're not. Well…actually, I suppose _technically_ you're _becoming_ one. But don't look so glum – it's nothing to worry about!" Alistair chuckles. In poor taste, I think. "Like I was saying, it'll take a few days at least, maybe a week, before you'd have to worry about anything irreversible. You'll last until the Joining."

"Last," I repeat. "Until the Joining."

"Right. The Joining is…it's what really _makes_ you a Grey Warden, you see, and us Wardens are…well, I guess you could say we're immune to the Taint. It's more complicated than that, but what it boils down to is that once you go through the Joining, there's no danger of your turning. Anyway, I already told you all of this, but apparently you weren't as awake as you looked."

"Was I…was I out for long?"

"A few minutes. Maybe a five minute beauty sleep. You're looking better already."

Daveth snorts. "He can say so if he wants. You ask me, though? You look half past dead, mate."

In spite of myself, I start to laugh. "You're a master of encouragement."

"I just tell it like I see it."

"Yeah, well…" I glance at my shoulder again, then shrug – a gesture I regret even more than my attempted laugh. "Half dead is better than all dead, isn't it?"

"Heh." The cutpurse shakes his head. "If you can laugh about being Blighted, I guess you can laugh about anything. You got some balls on you, don't you? Not every day you find a noble can claim that. Speaking of which."

Daveth holds out one of Duncan's glass vials. Its filled with thick, black blood. "Here you go. One premium bottle of darkspawn blood, courtesy of yours truly. Took the liberty of filling yours, while you was nodding. Messy."

Reluctantly, I take the vial from his palm and slip it into my pocket. Even in a glass vial, the blood feels…wrong. Something about it raises hairs on the back of my neck. Sets my teeth on edge.

"How many of them were there?" I ask, looking around the hillside for the first time since coming to back to consciousness. The fighting ranged further than I thought. All across the slope and down to the path below, ferns have been tramples, trees scarred by blades, and dirt and moss churned apart. Blood is spattered on bark, earth, and stone. Darkspawn bodies are scattered everywhere.

"Twelve," Alistair says casually. "Maybe fourteen."

"Aye," Daveth agrees. "And we all got at least one, each of us did. Even your hound. Isn't that right, girl? You did more than your share, didn't you?

Madra snuffles into Daveth's hand appreciatively, then positively fawns when he begins to scratch behind her ears. She may be bloodthirsty, but she also loves compliment and a good head rub.

"You got at least two, Ser Knight, isn't that right?"

Jory nods. "Two."

"And I gutted one, spilled its nasty innards all over its knees." He grimaces. "And all over my front, too, I'm afraid. Cost of doing business, all that. Still, smelled awful. How about you? You got one or two yourself, didn't you?"

"Only one, I think. Even then…" I glance at Madra, who is still basking in Daveth's attentions. "I had help. I can take credit for maybe half?"

"Two halves," Alistair says cheerfully. "You threw that one on my sword, up on the hill. That was very thoughtful of you, by the way."

"And you – you killed at least ten, didn't you?" Daveth shakes his head, apparently as awed as I am by Alistair's fighting prowess. "Like nothing I ever seen. How'd you fight like that?"

Alistair blushes – actually blushes! He seems about to answer, his mouth half open…and then his face clouds, and he turns away. "It's just – well, it's what we do," he says, his back to us. He walks to the nearest Shriek, kicks it over, and stares down contemptuously. "They were out here looking for survivors, I'll bet, or for another patrol to ambush."

"You think…you think these are the lot that did…" Daveth lets his question trail off. We all know what he means.

"No, I don't think so," Alistair replies. "They might have played a part, but that would've been a larger party. Shrieks are shock troops. They come in fast, hit hard, then fade. They don't usually stick around to fight large groups, let alone massacre a whole caravan. Whoever did that…I'd guess it was a full war party, probably led by an Emissary."

"An emmi-what now?" Daveth asks.

"An Emissary. They're – well, they're nothing good," Alistair says. "And nothing work talking about now. Come on, let's get moving."

"Back to Ostagar, I trust?" Jory says. His voice is harsh.

"Haven't we talked about this already?" Alistair exclaims, throwing his hands up dramatically. He's mocking Jory. "You guys remember, right? It's not just me?"

"This is not a joke! We've fought wolves and we've fought darkspawn, and it's by the Maker's grace alone that we've survived at all. Liam is wounded and – and – and Blighted! – Andraste save him, and none of us has got away without injury, at least none except you, Ser Alistair, and the day is nearly half done! We have what we need for your accursed ritual – it's time to end this foolishness and return to Ostagar, while we still can!"

"Are you always such a ray of sunshine?" Alistair is smiling pleasantly, almost mockingly. "No, don't answer that, we can figure it out ourselves."

"I said, this is _not_ a joke." Jory speaks through gritted teeth. "This has been a fool's errand from the start, and now we have what we need. I'll not see our lives thrown away for some scrap of parchment!"

Alistair's shoulders tense, and for the first time he turns and stares Jory directly in the face. Still smiling. "Now. I'll not hear any more yammering about this. Duncan said we get the maps, so we get the maps. That's it, end of story, etcetera. Clear enough for you?"

"By the Maker, boy, do you have no mind of your own?" Jory bellows.

For a moment, I see fire light in Alistair's eyes – all the confidence I saw after he cut down the darkspawn, but girded with steel and righteous anger. But it's only a moment.

Alistair turns away abruptly, waving Jory off.

"Oh, yes, I'm a _boy,_ " he says acidly. "Well, this _boy_ won't stop you if you feel the need to flee, Ser Jory, but what he _won't_ do is go back empty-handed."

"Maker take you!" Jory exclaims. "Are you so mule-headed that you'd risk all our lives to curry approval from Duncan? What spell has that fraud cast –"

Before Jory can finish, Alistair has spun around, hand on his sword. The fire is back in his eyes, and he begins to advance – ready to spill more blood, I think.

Jory, too, reaches for his sword, his face pale with anger.

"Oi!" Daveth leaps between them, hands outstretched. "Oi! The fuck is wrong with you two? The both of you, but you especially!" He's stabbing a finger at Jory in accusation. "I was there when you was recruited, Ser Knight! Nobody twisted your fucking arm! You knew then this might cost your life, and you know it now, too!"

The raw intensity in Daveth's voice is backing Jory down. Alistair, too. Hands are no longer on swords.

"You all saw the same as I did. All them poor bastards, cut up and splayed out like they was less than fucking cattle? Women and kids…"

His voice has dropped almost to a whisper. He's shaking his head. Reliving what he saw. What we all saw.

"If that's what the Blight is," Daveth says, "I'd give a lot more than my life to stop it. And I know you would too, Ser Knight. So if them treaties is a part of that, you're damn right we've got to go and grab them. And if they're not part of that, and Duncan is some sort of con, or some kind of idiot, then we're all buggered anyway, aren't we? Might as well be buggered here as in Ostagar, I say."

Slowly, Jory begins to nod.

Though I've no part of the argument, I find myself nodding, too.

What we saw on the land bridge changed everything. There's no question of stakes, or of calculated risk. No question of being only half-committed. I know it, and I think Jory knows it too, even if he's only slowly coming around.

None of us look at each other, or say a word. We retrieve lost weapons, check packs. I take a long draw from my waterskin, emptying it. Then we all fall in behind Alistair, and return to the rough dirt path.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: THE FIRST BLIGHT**

 _Chapter 1 - The Second Sin_

 _Thedas is a land of fierce diversity, from the assassin-princes of Antiva to the faded griffons of the Anderfels, but in my travels, I have found one tale that unites the people of this land. It is a story of pride and damnation, and although the telling differs, the essence of the tale remains the same._

 _At the height of its power, the Tevinter Imperium stretched over much of Thedas, uniting the known world under the rule of the tyrannical magisters. It is said that the Old Gods whom the magisters worshipped gave them the knowledge of blood magic, and the magisters used this forbidden power to cement their rule. The blood of elven slaves and humans alike ran down imperial altars to fuel magister greed, the tales of their excesses so horrifying that one can only be grateful that blood magic is prohibited today._

 _But all that stands tall must eventually fall._

 _Perhaps they foresaw their ruin, or perhaps their pride knew no bounds, but whatever the reason, the magisters dared to open a magical portal into the Golden City at the heart of the Fade. They sought to usurp the Maker's throne, long left unattended in the Golden City after the Maker turned His back on His creations. They would storm heaven itself with their power and become as gods._

 _This is what the Chantry, in its oft-exercised tendency to understate, refers to as the second sin._

 _According to most versions of the tale, the magisters did indeed reach the Golden City and walked into the home of the Maker, where no living being before them had dared, or been able, to tread. But humanity is not meant to walk in heaven. The magisters were wicked with pride and other sins, and their presence tainted the Golden City. What once was a perfect, holy citadel became a twisted home of darkness and nightmares._

 _The magisters were expelled back through their gateway and cursed for their treachery. As the Golden City had been tainted, so were the magisters twisted and transformed into things of darkness—the very first of the darkspawn._

 _The Golden City, once a shining beacon at the heart of the Fade, became the Black City, a reminder of all that man's pride has cost._

Excerpted from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_

by Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar


	13. Very Young, and Small, and Foolish

**CHAPTER TWELVE:**

 _Very Small, and Very Young, and Very Foolish_

 **Lost in thought,** I almost miss the flowers. It's impossible to know how long we've been in the Wilds, but it's got to be well past noon. I'm tired. My body is tired, and so is my soul.

It feels like years since I slept on anything but hard ground.

A lifetime since Highever burned.

It feels like weeks since I woke wooded hollow below the Dread Wolf's statue, with Iona's scent on my blankets and memory on my body – but it was just yesterday. Remembering this makes me dizzy. It seems impossible. Too much has happened since then.

My mind folds the events over and over, trying to sort them. Trying to make sense of them. The faces, the words. The whispers of discontent in the king's camp. The Rune. The mages. Clayne. All of it.

And so much more since we scrambled down the cliff. Just today. The smashed clearing, the dead missionary, the wolves, the massacre, the attack.

It's a hopeless jumble.

Physical pain is a distraction. Almost a welcome one. The pain in my shoulder is throbbing, and there's a dull ache in my leg, where Alistair bandaged the cut – and on my forearm, too, where the skin has begun to scar over the wounds I received in Highever.

Maybe it's a sign of my own weakness, but the pain's actually worst in my feet. Not as sharp, not as urgent, but overwhelming. After so many days in the saddle, I'm unused to walking, and we've walked for hours. I just want to sit down.

I ought to be paying attention to what's around us. I ought not to be relying on Madra's nose and Alistair's sense. There may still be darkspawn, or wolves, or other enemies beside.

There is still a mission to complete. A battle coming. Still revenge, human blood that must be spilled once the darkspawn are finished.

That ought to be my focus.

Instead, I know I'm drifting. Barely awake – just far enough from sleep to put one boot in front of the other, focused on the back of the person in front of me so I won't lose my way.

…

 **Something snaps me out of my stupor.** A strange buzzing at the front of my belt. A hum I feel more than hear. Instinctively, my hand drops to the leather pouches just ahead of my short sword. My fingers close around Aenid's rune.

As soon as my skin touches the stone, the movement ceases. The stone's surface is icy cold, so cold that at the first touch I think I've been scalded.

I stop walking immediately, lifting the rune up almost to eye level, trying to puzzle out what this means. The others are all ahead of me, all except Madra. I doubt they even notice I'm falling behind.

The intricate green patterns on the stone are glowing all over, but they are strongest at the lower left corner. In fact, the light seems to be travelling alone the markings, pulsing toward that side of the stone.

My eye travels further in the direction that light seems to be moving, and only then do I recognize that we're once more travelling along the lake's edge. I haven't noticed, because an ancient, fallen tree, half-sunk into the soggy earth, borders the path like a low wall, separating it from the water I can hear lapping against its far side.

On the side of the log, a blanket of flowers, each made of many white petals blossoming out from a crimson red center. It's the herb, the one Clayne spoke of – the one the Ash Warriors use to protect their Mabari, the key ingredient in the medicine that Clayne gifted to me.

Without the rune's interruption, I'd have walked right past.

As I drop to one knee, I call out for the others to wait. Or I try. What comes out is more like a mumble. My throat is dry, my waterskin empty since the fight with the Shrieks. I drank too much after the fight. Foolish.

The rune buzzes once more. I blink, refocus. The flowers are in front of me.

I slip the rune back into its pouch on my belt. When I accepted it from Aenid, it was easy enough to see the stone was possessed by magic, but of what sort I couldn't have guessed. Fortune, Wynne said. So did Clayne, for that matter. What they meant, I had no idea.

Now, I think I'm beginning to understand its true worth. Aenid's gift is precious indeed.

As gently as I can, though probably not as gently as I should, I begin to pluck the herbs. I can't remember if Clayne said I should gather the petals, or the leaves, or the stalks, so I take everything, stripping the log bare. It all goes into my pack, along with more dirt and crumbled wood than I'd like, but I have to hurry.

The others are out of sight when I rise, but they can't have gone far, and the path we're following is well worn. Besides that, I've got Madra. With her, I'm never really lost.

…

 **Not long after we catch the others,** Alistair turns away from the lake and the worn path. He leads us up a grassy slope that steepens gradually, until we are struggling up the side of a sandy embankment. We have to climb the last few feet, scrambling on roots and stones for a ledge that's just out of reach.

Daveth makes it up first, the turns and offers me his hand. He hauls me up, and I find we're standing in the shadow of moss-covered archways and crumbling columns. This might have been the inside of a great hall, or perhaps a garden courtyard. Maybe a town square. It's impossible to tell: time has erased all but the most foundational details, leaving only the skeletons of a place far older than the ruins of Ostagar.

The ruins stretch as far as I can see, blanketing the hill, which continues to rise ahead of us. Slowly, I turn in a circle, trying to take in as much as I can.

"A hand here?" Daveth grunts. He's laying on his stomach, arms over the lip of the embankment. He's trying to pull Madra up.

Embarrassed, I hurry to his side and catch hold of Madra's collar. She yips in irritation at the tension on her neck, scrabbling awkwardly against the dirt and sand, and it's all very ungainly and frantic for several minutes. Eventually, though, she's planted on solid ground, trying her best to look dignified in the aftermath.

"We're very near," Alistair says. He's got his map out again. "At least, I think we are. Maker, it's hard to read this blasted thing. Apparently nobody accounted for half the fortress falling down into the lake…"

Behind me, Jory mutters something about how the treaties might be in the lake too. Everyone pretends to ignore him, but it's a sobering thought.

"Just a bit further now, I think." Alistair points further up. "With our luck, it'll be right at the top. It'd be a shame to miss any of this hill."

"Aye. A bloody shame, that'd be." Daveth chuckles, shaking his head. "What're we looking for, now? Exactly, I mean. Just a bunch of papers setting on the ground?"

"Duncan said the treaties would be in a chest, magically preserved." Alistair, already hiking upward, has to look over his shoulder to answer. "I imagine it'll be obvious. There's nothing else up here."

He's not wrong. Ivy, ferns, and lichen cover the few stones haven't been ground away by time. Moss is everywhere. Every now and then, we pass a stretch of wall that still stands, or the outline of long-filled well. Birds have built their nests atop some of the taller ruins, and grass grows thick and deep in the footprint of ancient foundations.

Though the hill isn't steep, my legs are trembling and my tunic is drenched in sweat. It must midafternoon by now, and even with the sun hidden by thick clouds, the day's heat is boiling the swamp, rendering the air thick with humidity. I'd kill for a swallow of water.

Better yet, for a mug of cold ale, fresh from Highever's cellars. It'd quench my thirst, and also fill my rumbling stomach, and take the edge of the pain of my injuries. As soon as I've thought of it, it's all I can think about.

I can almost taste it. Almost hear the buzz of conversation, smell bread and meat from the kitchens. Almost see Aeron next to me, elbows up on the bar, laughing, or telling a story, or chatting up some servant girl, hoping to squeeze her ass and meet her later for a tumble.

It's only ale, I tell myself, as tears fill my eyes. Pull yourself together, I demand, as ache crushes my chest. It's only ale…

Angrily, I swipe my arm across my cheeks, and hope no one's seen.

This is no time to feel sorry for myself. I can barely stay on my feet. How will I protect myself in a fight if I let self-pity cloud my thoughts, or give in to memories of home?

Desperate for a distraction, I jog to catch up with Daveth. The effort leaves me dizzy, and I have to reach for a nearby sapling, steadying myself long enough to let the world stop spinning.

"You all right?" he asks, as I fall into step.

"Just tired."

"Bet you are. Look like you've seen a ghost."

I nod, reluctantly. This isn't the conversation I was looking for. "Just…thinking of home. Home, and ale."

"Damnit! Now why'd you have to go and say _ale?"_

I chuckle. "Sorry."

"Eh. How's your leg?"

"Fine," I say, truthfully. "My shoulder's hurt worse, but I'll live."

"Good. Cause I ain't dragging you back."

"What?" I exclaim, smiling. "But you said you'd watch my back!"

"I did at that. And I aim to. But I'm barely interested in dragging myself back through this damn swamp. I sure as shit ain't dragging a corpse with me."

"Fair enough."

"Say, how old you think this place is?"

I glance around, studying the ruins as though I can somehow measure decay.

Millennia may have passed since men last walked here. Who knows how long these buildings stood before being abandoned, but it seems reasonable to guess that this place was built during the Ancient Ages, before the dawn of the Chantry.

The First Blight took place in -300 or -400 Ancient, if I remember Brother Aldous' teachings correctly. So the Wardens would have come sometime after that, though I've no way of knowing how long after. Nor of how long they stayed, or whether their time her coincided with those who built this place.

"Way I figure," Daveth says, interrupting my train of thought, "this place must be a thousand years old, at least. You think?"

I nod slowly.

Daveth whistles. "Never knew a place could feel so old."

I know exactly what he means. There is an overwhelming sense, as we walk through these ruins, that we are all very small, and very young, and very foolish. That our presence, our purpose, even the foe that threatens to swallow Ferelden – that it's all meaningless here, dust picked up by a breeze.

As far as these stones are concerned, we'll be gone in a blink of an eye. Gone, along with our problems, our pain, our past and present. Gone, lost in the flow of time, less than a footnote on a single page in all the annals of all the history that Thedas has ever seen.

It's a heady thought. The sort of thing that hollows out your chest and widens your eyes. And it's not just because I'm exhausted. I can see the same realization in Daveth's face, too. I can't imagine it's lost on the others, either.

We're insignificant, and I'll be damned if there's not some sort of peace in that.

…

 **The further we go, the steeper this damn hill seems to be.** And the terrain is certainly growing more and more rugged. Twice, we have to scramble up slick embankments, the scars left by old landslides. Elsewhere, our path is blocked by empty foundations, or piles of crumbled stone, or the remains of long walls, and we're forced to climb.

It's hard going. I'm drenched in sweat, parched, and the cut on my leg is beginning to throb. All I can think about is asking for a breather, or a swallow of someone else's water, but I can't bring myself to ask. I hate this part of me, this meaningless pride. I hate that I'm left with silent prayers, begging the Maker for another brief pause while Alistair consults his map.

I hate the gratitude I feel when, a few paces ahead, Jory stops in his tracks. He's turned, facing to our left, pointing at a blocky structure, maybe fifty yards away, one that's in better shape than anything we've yet seen.

"Look there! That could be the Warden's fortress, no?"

"It…could be something," Alistair says hesitantly. "But it's not in the right place. At least, I don't think it is."

"What the hell is it, even?" Daveth asks.

I'm wondering the same thing. It's too small for a gatehouse and too large for a mausoleum, though it closely resembles both. Angular, stylized statues of bearded warriors flank an archway that's half again my height, and between them, two gates of dark iron that stand ajar. There's not much else to the building, no windows or fortifications. Just the gates, and inside, only blackness.

"It's Dwarven, by the look of it," Jory observes.

"Aye, it is," Daveth says. He's shaking his head, and his hand's on his sword. "I got a bad feeling about this."

"I think you're both right," Alistair says. "That must be an entrance to the Deep Roads. We should steer clear."

As though to emphasize Alistair's warning, Madra begins to growl, low and long. I spare a glance, and see her hackles are up, her eyes fixed on the gap between the iron gates.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Daveth says, already backing away. "Let's get the fuck out of here, before any of more of them buggers come spilling out."

"It…might be too late for that," Alistair says, blanching. Then, without another word, he turns and begins to run up the hill.

Daveth and I trade glances before racing after him, Jory hot on our tails. All the exhaustion, all the pain I felt just moments ago, it's banished by something bordering on panic.

"How many?" Daveth yells.

"Too many!" Alistair calls back.

We've covered maybe a hundred yards, still at a breakneck pace, when we hear the scrabble of feet on rocks, followed by guttural cries. Deeper, raspier than the screams from the Sharlocks. It sounds like they're communicating, not with words like we do, but with barks and roars.

Maker, I swear I hear them laughing. Cackling, their voices cruel and grating.

I risk a glance over my shoulder, and find they are still pouring out of the gates. Scores of them are already giving chase. Far too many to fight, even for Alistair.

My lungs are already burning, but I push harder. Madra is at my heel, refusing to run ahead.

I look back again.

These darkspawn are shorter and stockier than the Shrieks, less alien and more humanoid in their movements. They wear heavier armor, and there are no blades strapped to their arms; instead, they wave weapons overhead, crude axes and dark swords with jagged edges. Some carry short, thick bows.

One, a hunchbacked beast who nonetheless stands a head taller than the rest, waves a tattered black cloth on the end of a pike. He's near the Deep Roads entrance, not moving himself, but he seems to be rallying others as they emerge, guiding them up the slope. After us.

My injured foot hooks on something, a root or a stone, and I almost fall. Forward momentum keeps me upright long enough to regain my balance, but I'm well behind the others now.

Daveth makes to slow, to wait for me, but I yell at him to keep going.

The braying and chittering from the darkspawn sounds louder. Closer. This time I don't look over my shoulder. I already know what I'll see.

Ahead and above, I can see what I believe is the crest of the hill, circled by a low wall of red-orange bricks. A tower, made from the same material, rises inside the wall. Though it's half-crumbled, with gaps in the walls and a roof that's long-fallen away, it's still in better condition than the other ruins – and of a noticeably different style.

It must be the Warden's outpost. I'll make it to the wall before the darkspawn, even as far back as I've fallen. If we can find a way over, into the tower, we might be able to bottleneck them. Might be able to find some way to defend ourselves.

Damned if I don't miss my bow now. The quiver on my hip is still half-full, more than a dozen arrows, each of which could kill one of the bastards. Better our odds, if we have any.

No sooner than I've thought of arrows, and one sails past my ear – not from below, but from above.

My heart sinks as I see dark shapes moving along the red wall. More of their strange language echoes down the hill. They sound excited – they've trapped us, and they know it.

"There!" Alistair bellows. "On the left!"

He shifts course, heading toward break in the wall. I'm not sure if it's a gate, or a collapsed arch, or just a section that's fallen in.

There are still maybe a hundred paces to go, and more arrows are raining down. They're firing at the others more than at me. Daveth has to duck several times, and begins juking and jumping as he runs, trying to throw them off. Jory catches one arrow with his shield, batting it to the ground.

More enemies appear at the break in the wall – more of the stocky darkspawn that pursue us, charging down the hill with weapons drawn.

Alistair roars a battle cry and puts on a burst of speed, rushing forward to meet them. Jory calls out as well, though his challenge is weaker, and he has no more speed to offer. Neither do I, for that matter.

But I do have Madra. I gasp for air and manage a curt whistle, waving clumsily with two fingers. It's barely a command, certainly not a proper one, but she understands. All the speed she's been holding back is unleashed. She flies up the hill, reaching the darkspawn at almost the same time as Alistair.

There's sweat in my eyes. I can barely see what's happening above me, but I know I'm close to the fight. I reach across my shoulder, drawing the Cousland sword from its sheath. The weight throws me off balance and I find myself stumbling again, first as I stead myself and then as I nearly trip over a fallen darkspawn, its throat ripped apart, black blood staining its armor.

Again I manage to keep my feet, and with my free hand swipe at my eyes.

They're all around me – friends and enemies – blades flashing.

My own heartbeat pounds in my ears.

Daveth has a blade in each hand, and pirouettes around one of the creatures, slashing at its neck. It goes down.

Nearer to me, Jory has just run one of them through. Before he can pull his sword clear, he has to raise his shield, knocking away a blow from an axe. The darkspawn circles, trying to get behind him, and raises the weapon for another blow, but I'm close enough to strike.

I aim for a joint in the armor, a crack the back of the beast's knees, thinking to hamstring it, or at least knock it off balance. Instead, the blade lops clean through, and the darkspawn topples sideways, shrieking in pain as his legs fall in another direction.

There's no time to finish him, though. We're all running as we fight, trying to push through the enemy even more than trying to kill them.

At the front of the fight, Alistair hacks off an arm, sending the darkspawn staggering down the hill toward me. I level the point of my sword at its stomach, below the thick armor on its chest, and rush forward. With a satisfying crunch, leather and skin give way under the sword's point. The beast gargles something, then topples to the side.

The force of the impact spins me, but also helps wrench my sword free, and then I'm running again.

To my right, Daveth is somehow scrambling up the side of the wall. He's finding footholds, grabbing at vines and jagged bricks with one free hand while still wielding a dagger. He vaults the last few feet, throwing himself over the edge and tackling one of the archers out of sight.

I don't have time to be amazed, or really even to worry for him.

Alistair cuts down the last two defenders between us and the gap in the wall, and for a second, as we rush through into the courtyard, it feels like victory.

But there's not even time to catch my breath, as I nearly collide with an archer. We're so close I think I can see something like surprise on its leathery face. I can smell it, too, the stench of rot on its breath. Something dark and slick trickles out from its eyes and mouth, like wet ink, some sort of perverse ichor. For an instant, I think this must be due to some wound – but I can see no injury, and the darkspawn moves quickly, darting back and tossing its bow aside.

I give chase, raising my sword, but Madra tackles the monster from behind, her weight bearing it to the ground as she savages the back of its neck. It flails for an instant, then goes still as her jaws crack its spine.

"The tower! Get to the tower!"

None of us need Alistair's instruction. Daveth has finished off the rest of the archers, and no more of the darkspawn are left in the courtyard, but the hoard from that damned gatehouse cannot be far behind.

As we spring across the open ground, I could swear I feel something cold on my chest. Then again.

The necklace – bouncing against my skin as I run. It's ice cold.

Is it the darkspawn? Are they some foul perversion of magic, that causes this reaction from the Dread Wolf's pendant?

Over my shoulder, I hear a call unlike the braying of the darkspawn, or the battle cries of my companion's. A bird's sharp, shrill call.

I start to turn, to look behind me, but something small and dark whistles past, its wings almost striking my cheek. There's an impression of yellow eyes, an open beak. Just ahead, almost to the tower, the raven pinwheels upward, sailing across the red bricks before turning sharply and sailing back over my head, toward the outer wall.

The pendant is so cold it burns, so cold I think there might be frost on my shirt.

Behind me, there is a deafening crack. In my next breathe, I taste smoke and fire – and also the tang of iron, like gathering lightening.

An instant later, a blast of hot air washes past me, pushing me forward. I smash against the tower's wall, bloodying my knuckles and then my palms as I push myself back and then sideways, running after the others.

Now I look back again, and find that an inferno rises along the low wall, a ring of fire that surrounds the courtyard, leaping and licking high above the stones. Near the gap we've come through, darkspawn are shrieking in pain.

One of the beasts staggers through, its limbs flaming, oily smoke pouring from slits in its armor. It stumbles, then collapses.

Someone grabs my arm, hauling me up half-crumbled steps. Daveth, guiding me. We follow a winding, moss-covered staircase along the inside of the tower wall, up to what might once have been the second floor. There is no floor left, however – only dirt and stone, piled high as the tower collapsed in on itself with time.

I sink to my knees, gasping for breath.

"What the fuck is that!?" Daveth demands.

He's standing over me, eyes wide and wild. He's pointing at the fire still blazing over the walls, as though any of us need help figuring out what he means.

"Wards," I gasp. "Duncan said…there were wards on the fortress."

"No," Alistair says curtly.

"It's witchcraft." Jory looks as frantic as Daveth. "They've sealed us in!"

"No," Alistair says again, just as adamant. "Whatever that is, it's not the darkspawn, and it's not wards." He sheaths his sword and walks to the nearest wall, where another set of stairs continues up. He climbs halfway up and stops, staring out past the flames.

The raven, I think. It has to be related to the raven, and the cold that burned in the pendant.

"Here." Daveth is extending his waterskin to me. "Have the rest."

There's not much left, but what there is I drink greedily. Only after the lost drop do I notice Madra studying me hopefully. My stomach lurches, and when I hand the skin back to Daveth, I guiltily avoid her eyes.

After a few minutes, Alistair returns. "Whatever that was, it seems to have scared them off. For now, at least." He looks around, slowly turning in place. "And this is the outpost, that's sure. But I don't see anything like a chest."

I push myself up to my knees and then, with difficulty, to my feet. For a few moments, I think I might fall back down, my legs are shaking so hard. I focus on breathing, though, and slowly everything steadies.

Outside the tower, the flames are beginning to die. It's hard to be sure through the smoke, but I don't see any of the darkspawn on the slope. Maybe they really have gone.

Gingerly, I draw out a rag and begin to wipe my sword clean. The blood that streaks the blade really is black, I see. Other than a few strands of gore, it's surprisingly thin, too, like the ink dripping from that archer's eyes and mouth.

If we survive this, I'll have to ask Alistair about that. Right now, even if I had the energy, I don't think I want to know the answer.

Jory is still seated, his arms on his knees, head forward. His cheeks are flushed, and he's still breathing hard, sweat beaded across his head. Daveth's nearby, also sitting, scratching Madra's ears. I look away.

Alistair paces near the far wall, studying a decaying cross beam like it might suddenly transform into a bookshelf, complete with a few treaties.

With the sword cleaned and sheathed, I decide to join the search. There's nothing else to do. I'm certainly in no rush to leave, not until I'm sure the darkspawn are gone. Even then, frankly – I'm afraid the moment we step foot outside this outpost, they'll boil up from the Deep Roads again, and this time there'll be no strange magic to save us.

I turn slowly, taking in the ground and the bricks, the tufts of grass. Idly, my hand rises to my neck, checking the Dread Wolf. It's slick with sweat, but no colder or warmer than the air around me. Gently, I tuck it back inside my shirt.

"What's that? Over there?"

I turn, and find Daveth is pointing across the inside of the tower. Leaves and branches have piled against the far wall, but he's right – there's something else there. Something metallic, the edge of something squared, peeking out.

Daveth doesn't get up, but Alistair and I cover the distance at the same time. He begins to push away the largest of the branches while I drop to one knee, clearing away dry leaves and wet moss with mounting excitement.

It doesn't take much effort to reveal a chest of now more than a few cubic feet, oak sides with iron girding. Even where I brush away dirt and rot, it looks almost new. Even the paint on its top, a crimson griffin, is unsullied. This is it – it has to be.

But the latch on its front is lifted already, and when I lift up the handle, it opens to reveal nothing within. Nothing but bare wood, and a single, crystallized leaf that immediately crumbles to dust.

We stare for longer than we ought to before I lean back.

"Well?" Daveth calls. "You find the damned things?"

Wordlessly, Alistair helps me up, then turns and shakes his head.

I can see Daveth forming another question, but suddenly I can't hear him. In my mind, I hear a raven cry, but my ears remain muffled.

The burning cold is back, stabbing through the nape of my neck and out my back, turning my breath to frost. Magic, like nothing I've felt since lifting the pendant from the white roses beneath the statue of _Fen'Harel_.

It flares, stronger and stronger, until I almost cry out –

And then it's gone, as suddenly as it began.

I gasp, and stagger one step forward.

Alistair catches my arm, looking at my curiously. Whatever Daveth was asking has died on his lips.

And then I hear gentle footsteps on the stairs behind me, descending from higher in the tower, and a new voice, a woman's voice, rich and honeyed, cuts through silent air.

"Well, well," it says, in a tone that is deeply amused, and perhaps a bit disdainful. "What have we here?"


	14. Least of All, Believe

_A quick note: I want to thank my regular reviewers, DarkquillMaster and Da-Awesom-One, for their encouragement - and, in particular, for the tips on combat accuracy from DarkquillMaster. On a related note, it'll likely be a bit longer (than usual) before posting Chapter Fourteen, as I plan to go back through chapters that I posted without rigorous editing (everything back to Chapter Nine, basically), in part to incorporate the feedback on combat._

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN:** _Least of All Believe_

" **Well, well. What have we here?"**

Jory and Daveth, seated nearest to the stairs down which our mystery woman walks, scramble away, coming up to their feet on all fours, fumbling for their blades. She ignores them, taking each step deliberately. As she passes behind walls whose bricks have not yet fallen away, and behind thick strands of ivy, I can see her boots, and a gnarled staff slung across her back, but not much more.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" She speaks slowly, deliberately. Seems to relish every word. "A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned?"

The curve of the stairs bring her into view, now. She knows it, too, pausing for a moment with her feet on different steps before she continues. She's watching us as we watch her, gauging our reactions. Sizing us up.

She is my age, or perhaps a year or two older. Her hair is dark, pulled back into a tight bun from which a few strands have come loose, feathering up at the back of her head or falling brow. Her eyes are golden, the color of honey under summer sun, and they dance with calculating intelligence.

I've seen beautiful women make an entrance before, their eyes seeking out the men in the room they value, looking for approval. And though she is certainly beautiful, that's not what's going on here. Something about her lazy confidence in her stride reminds me of a cat circling a mouse, deciding whether the little morsel is worth its effort.

"Or are you merely an intruder," she continues, "come in to these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?"

She's dressed like no one I've ever seen. A purple cowl, hood thrown back, hangs around her neck. It is open at the front and sides, but wraps around her navel and the small of her back, leaving her chest, side, and back bare. A scant, pale bra barely covers her breasts, held together with narrow cords that, at the front, hang from the centerpiece of her ornate, golden necklace. One arm is bare, except for a small leather band around the bicep; the other is sleeved in black, with a fan of crow's feathers at the shoulder. She wears gloves, and gold bracelets, and dark breeches below a fringed leather skirt that sits low on her hips.

It all leaves very little to the imagination, yet does not seem intentionally provocative. It's chaotic, but intentioned; wild, but not feral.

She is halfway down the stairs now.

Beside me, Madra growls once, briefly, in warning intended only for me. Whoever this woman is, Madra doesn't trust her.

Resting my hand on my short sword, I begin to walk parallel to her descent, letting her know that we're watching her just as surely as she's watching us. Madra and Alistair follow, while Jory and Daveth maintain a healthier distance.

"So, what say you?" The woman has reached the bottom of the stairs, where she stops and folds her arms. "Hmm? What are you, and why are you here?"

"Just where in the hell did you come from?" Daveth calls. His short sword is in hand, and he's got a knife cocked back over his shoulder, ready to throw.

The woman flicks her eyes in his direction, but her attention returns almost immediately to me and Alistair.

"Well?" she asks, thrumming her fingers against her arm. "You have stumbled into my Wilds, have you not? You owe me an answer. Are you a scavenger, or an intruder?"

It's Alistair who finally answers. "We are neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this outpost, and we are here in their name. Anyhow, just how do you get by, saying these are _your_ Wilds? They don't look like they belong to much of anyone, if you ask me."

" _You_ are the intruder, here. I believe the first question is rightfully mine."

Without waiting for a reply, she turns away and paces across the uneven ground. She stops at the tower's edge, and there she stands, staring in silence out over the courtyard at the ruins below, and the lake beyond.

"I have watched your progress for some time," she says at last. "'Where do they go?' I wondered. 'Why are they here?' I _chose_ to help you, when I need not have done so. You _live_ because of my choice. And now you disturb ashes that none have touched for so long. Why is that, I wonder?" She turns suddenly, and stares directly at me. "So, I ask again: What are you, and why are you here?"

"Careful," Daveth warns. "She looks like a Wilder, she does. May be more of her clan nearby."

"So, having just faced a horde of darkspawn, you now fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Well," Alistair says earnestly, "swooping _is_ bad."

She stifles an exasperated sigh. "I am _not_ one of the Chasind, nor do I belong to any other tribe. And if it will set your mind at ease, then I offer my pledge: should anything _swoop_ in to harm you, I shall simply roast it, as I roasted your previous attackers."

She flicks the fingers of one hand, and a flame flickers into existence just above her palm.

Behind me, Daveth and Jory both gasp. I hear the scrabble of footsteps, and a blade being drawn.

Daveth cries a warning. "She's a witch of the wilds, she is! Back! Get back from her!"

Something whistles between Alistair and I – Daveth's knife, spinning toward the woman.

She doesn't flinch, merely flicks one hand, like she's batting away cobwebs. The knife disappears, leaving only a shimmer in the air.

"'Witch of the wilds?'" she repeats, eyebrows raised in mock-surprise. "Why ever would you say that? Such idle fancies, those legends."

"Stay back, witch!" Jory is yelling now. "Back, or you'll taste my sword!"

Though he raises his own shield, and has his own sword in hand, Alistair turns back, glaring and shaking his head.

"Stand down," Alistair snaps. Then his face softens into a smirk. "Stand down, or we really _might_ get turned into frogs."

His tone is glib, but I can see his sword. Something blue glows on its pommel, shining between his fingers. I wonder if I'm about to witness a Templar in action. Surely he must be drawing on his powers, preparing for the fight he's still trying to avoid.

I doubt Daveth or Jory are willing to let their guard down either, but at least the yelling subsides – and no more knives are flung, and Jory bites back any further threats.

"Have none of you any minds of your own? If I wanted you dead, I had but to let the darkspawn claim you. Yet I drove them off, and you repay me with thrown knives? If you did not strike me as fools, I might choose _not_ to overlook so grave an insult." She shakes her head reproachfully, letting her icy gaze settle briefly on each of us before continuing. "Now, shall I guess at your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is there no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" Alistair echoes. His lips are still fixed in that stupid, lopsided grin, but there's something cold in his face. He begins to move away from me, circling Morrigan. Positioning himself for a fight. "You stole them, didn't you? You're some kind of… sneaky… _witch-thief!"_

"My, my. How very _eloquent_ you are." If she realizes what Alistair is doing – and I am certain she does – the witch is unconcerned. "But you must tell me, how _does_ one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

"I will not," she replies archly, "for 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened."

Her yellow eyes flick from Alistair to me, and then to Jory and Daveth. She has shifted her weight, angling her body to match Alistair's attempt to flank her. In one hand, she twists the air, and I see it shimmer.

"She's toying with us," I say abruptly. "We should go."

It's more than clear to me that this woman could slaughter us all if she wished. We are tired, injured, off balance. She can raise bulwarks of fire and make knives vanish. It's not even a contest.

"No. We came here with a purpose." In his voice, I can hear the same undercurrent of anger that flared when Jory stumbled close to mutiny. "And you – yes, you, the witchy one. If you didn't steal them, then tell me who did."

"Ah! At long last, you've stumbled upon a question worthy of a response." She smirks, letting the promise of information dangle a moment before answering. "'Twas my _mother_ , in fact."

Whatever Alistair expected, it wasn't this. "Your… mother?"

"Yes, my mother," she says, like she's explaining something to a very young child. "You are familiar with the concept of mothers, I presume? Mine, it so happens, took your documents, and she keeps them still, I believe."

"Right…" Alistair, clearly confused, is still trying to maintain some measure of control over the conversation. Over this whole predicament.

He spins his sword once, a flashy gesture, the sort of thing you'd see at a tournament, over-shined knights preening for their sweethearts. It's cocky, even for Alistair.

Then I realize he wants her to see the blue light, which now bathes the length of his blade.

"Right," he repeats, more sue of himself. "Well, then _she_ had best turn them over!"

The witch glances at his sword, without apparent concern. Then she chuckles again, shaking her head. "Perhaps you should tell her that yourself, little boy. But I should warn you: she does not tolerate threats so patiently as I, nor does she take kindly to self-important Chantry thugs. She can, however, be quite reasonable. If one of you were merely to ask, I think, she might return your documents, and gladly."

Alistair doesn't immediately respond, opting instead for a sustained glair.

Maker, but I hope he's not so arrogant that he'll start a fight over wounded pride.

It's not that I don't understand his caution, or even the obvious alarm from the other two. It's abundantly clear that this witch is dangerous. Yet that is the exact reason I believe we should trust her. She may speak with a barbed tongue, but she's done nothing but help us. As she herself noted, we'd be dead if not for her.

If she's offering help now, there's no good reason to refuse, let alone draw blood. Or spill our own.

Still, Alistair doesn't speak. Whatever internal war he's waging, I can't begin to guess, but it's gone on long enough.

"Can you take us to her?" I blurt the words, none of them coming out quite fully formed. As an afterthought, I add: "Please?"

Inelegant thought it is, my blurted olive branch breaks the tension. I can see Alistair's shoulders relax, the blue glow fading immediately. The witch smiles, a bit less haughtily than before, and her fingers stop twisting.

"Now _there_ is a sensible request." Her yellow eyes lock on to mine, and her lip twitches. "And from such a handsome lad, too."

I'm certain that's a jab – my face is caked with sweat and blood, my lips are cracked, and I'm practically covered with dirt and mud – but an unexpected flush rises in my cheeks just the same. I look at the ground, and feel anger rising. At myself or her, I'm not sure.

"You do not appear so easily frightened as your companions, nor so facile as your leader. Perhaps you and I might have a civilized discussion, yes? Then let us begin with proper introductions. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

I swallow my pride, slipping back into forms I was taught long ago, and force a gracious nod. "As you wish. I am Liam Cousland, second son of Ser Bryce Cousland, Teyrn… the late Teyrn of Highever, Maker rest his soul. I am recently pledged as a recruit in the Order of the Grey Wardens, in service of Warden Commander Duncan, and I come before you in his name, and in the name of his Order."

She throws her head back and laughs, a throaty chuckle that might make men swoon in other settings.

"Now _that,"_ she says, offering a mock curtsy, _"_ is a greeting that can be recognized as proper and courteous, even here in these Wilds. Mine shall be less grand: you may call me Morrigan, for that is my name. Few enough have spoken it, but I grant you the honor, Liam Cousland, for I think I rather like you."

"I'd be careful," Alistair warns good-naturedly, back to his usual self so quick that you could almost forget the anger and the sword. "First it's all, 'Hello, I _like_ you,' and then – Zap! Frog time _._ "

"You could do much worse than a frog," Morrigan says, still smiling. "A frog is quite charming, in fact, when one considers what other things dwell in these Wilds. But have no fear; with me, you are safe, from frogs and otherwise."

"Aye, don't you know anything," Daveth grumbles, stepping up beside us. He's sheathed his sword, but he's still watching Morrigan warily. "Witches put you in pots, they do. Don't need bloody frogs, when they can boil up a real man."

"'Tis truly remarkable, how you flatter yourself," Morrigan says, without ever looking at him. Then she turns, walking down the steps to the courtyard. "Follow me, then," she calls, "if it pleases you."

Jory shoves past us. He, too, has put away his weapons, though his hand still rests on one hilt as he follows Morrigan. "This is already a fool's errand," he says. "We may as well as it through. Besides, if the pot's warmer than this damned forest, I'll take it."

Alistair and I fall into step behind Jory, with Daveth and Madra bringing up the rear.

"Well," Alistair murmurs, as we reach the bottom of the steps, "aren't _you_ the smooth talker."

I suppress a flash of irritation, not unlike the one I felt when Morrigan called me handsome.

"I just didn't want a fight," I reply.

"No, I'm not… not questioning you. Not at all. I ought to thank you, really. We _should_ get those treaties, and you handled that whole… _thing_ , back there, better than I did. It's just… I dislike this Morrigan's sudden appearance, don't you? It's all a bit… convenient, you know?"

I nod, but don't answer. Mostly because I don't _have_ an answer. It does all seem convenient. Or maybe contrived, like we're being taken through paces we don't yet understand. Maybe we really are destined for a pot, or frog-hood.

But I don't see any other choice, and I don't think Alistair does, either, so follow we do, across the courtyard and around the tower, and out an entrance on the far side of the wall, and down the opposite side of the hill, heading deeper into the Wilds.

…

 **When we step out into the meadow,** the first thing I notice is sunlight.

We've not seen the sun since we passed Lothering – since before Iona visited me under the Dread Wolf's statue; from the cliffs of Ostagar, the oppressive, purple clouds that blot out sun, moons, and stars would seem to stretch over the Wilds and past the southern horizon. Yet we could not be deeper in the Wilds, and here we find the sun. Soft grass underfoot is speckled with warm, golden rays, and when I look up, I see blue sky between pale green leaves.

A wooden house stands at the meadow's center, in the crook of a burbling stream. Behind, on the other side of the stream, a tower looms. It might have been a silo once, or an astrarium, or even an oversized windmill. With grey stones covered in lichen and domed roof, half-fallen in, it would not stand out among Ostagar's many crumbling fortifications.

The house, however, would be out of place anywhere. It stands at least three stories tall, though none of the floors seem to have been built directly atop the others. Wooden struts and scaffolds are necessary just to keep everything upright, though a few extra seem to have been thrown in just for good measure, reaching up needlessly into empty sky, like unused flagpoles. The thatched roof, too, is haphazard and just a bit too large, reminding me of a wide-brimmed straw hat. Windows of various sizes look out in all directions; some are open, some are dark, and a few look like stained glass. Smoke rises stone two separate chimneys.

There's a large garden out front, surrounded by a rustic fence. It's filled with rows of vegetables, tall herbs, enormous squash, and more than a few statues, all of which seem to be from different eras and different cultures. A lone fruit tree has its branches decorated with red ribbons, which waft in a gentle breeze. A dirt path winds along the side of the fence, up to a wooden porch and a door with a brass knob.

Taken all together, the entire scene is at once charmingly pastoral and undeniably unsettling.

"Here we are at last," Morrigan announces, turning to face us for the first time, I think, since we left the Wardens' old outpost.

It seems an odd thing for her to say, since the entire journey took only a few minutes. Or has it? My feet ache, even more than they did climbing the hill to the outpost. Fresh sweat dampens my hair and trickles down the small of my back.

Now that I think back over our wordless journey, I recall only disconcerting flashes: leaving the ruins behind and pressing on into thick forest; sinking to my knees in a swamp, when I stumble off the path; climbing a hill covered in white, marble statues; swift water ripping past my ankles as we ford a river; pushing through a maze of enormous vines… there is more, too: rabbit in Madra's jaws as she prances between us; and the sweet taste of water at the river; and the way beads bounce on Morrigan's bare back as she walks, hanging from the knot in the strings of her strange undergarment.

Those memories don't feel right. There's something off. A buzzing in the back of my head. A sense that I've forgotten something, or remembered it the wrong way. But when I look down, I find my boots dark to the ankles, and dry mud cakes my breeches. Besides that, my waterskin is full, and my stomach no longer aches from hunger.

"Well, come on." Morrigan is looking back at us, halfway to the porch, beckoning impatiently.

I'm not sure why we stopped, but we all lurch forward again, earning an eyeroll from Morrigan.

"Greetings, Mother," says Morrigan.

She's addressing an elderly woman who sits, motionless, in a quaint rocking chair beside the front door. The woman wears a rough, brown peasant dress and a grey apron, and sits motionless a quaint rocking chair, studying a wicker basket that rests on her knees.

"I bring before you four Grey Wardens, who –"

"I see them, girl."

Morrigan's mother has not yet looked up from the basket. It is full to brimming with acorns, roots, and tiny burlap bags, each tied with a single red ribbon. She mutters something to herself and shakes the basket once, then leans in close and inhales deeply. Whatever she smells, it makes her chuckle.

"Yes, I see them," she repeats, gently moving the basket from knees and setting it beside the rocker.

As she straightens in her seat, she finally raises her eyes. They're eyes are much darker than Morrigan's, but they burn bright with the same intellect – and a spark of mischief, besides. She holds my gaze for too long, making me squirm, but whether I'm afraid of offending her, or afraid I might miss something, or just _afraid,_ I can't make myself look away.

At last, she shifts her focus to Alistair, subjecting him to similar scrutiny. Daveth and Jory receive more cursory glances, though she's clearly sizing them up, too.

Last, she turns her attention to Madra, and immediately breaks into a warm smile. She says nothing, merely nods at my hound.

Madra barks once, happily.

With this out of the way, the woman returns her gaze to me, and nods with finality. "Yes," she says. "Much as I expected."

"Much as you… expected?" Alistair shakes his head, grinning. "Are we supposed to believe you've been expecting us? _Us,_ specifically?"

"In a manner of speaking. I knew you would come, and the manner in which you would come, but not the when." She barks out a sharp, unexpected guffaw and slaps her knees. "Isn't it marvelous how very capricious magic can be with information? It's like asking a cat for directions: consider yourself lucky if it only tells you where to go!"

The old woman laughs again, but stops abruptly. Her eyes drift away, focused on something only she can see, and her face clouds.

"Oh, my. My, oh, my. Have we had this conversation before?"

She's asking no one in particular, and none of us answer. Even Morrigan looks a bit concerned. Then the old woman's eyes focus on Alistair, and then she breaks into a smile, revealing startlingly white teeth.

"Oh, no! The conversation, yes, but not us. No, it wasn't with you, dear." Something in the smile twists, becoming conspiratorial. "But you _are_ of his lineage, you know," she continues, now in a stage whisper. "You won't escape it, not in the end."

I haven't the faintest fucking clue what this old woman is talking about, but it seems Alistair does. The grin is long gone; his face has gone quite pale. Well, paler than usual.

"Wait," he says. "What – what do you mean?"

Again, the old woman laughs, a belly laugh this time. "Oh," she says when she begins to recover. "Oh, pay me no mind. You are required to do nothing, my dear, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide… either way, one's a fool."

Daveth has stepped up to my side, so close I can feel his shoulder against mine. "There's something not right here," he murmurs, so quiet I can barely make out the words. "We need to get gone, and quick."

Though he's spoken so softly that even I can barely make out the words, inches away, it's clear the old woman has heard. She stands with unexpected grace and strides across the porch, wiping her hands on a grey apron as she comes. At the top of the steps she stops and looks straight at Daveth.

"You're letting your imagination run away with you," she says reproachfully. "You've nothing to fear, not from me. Besides, even if I wanted boiled meat tonight, none of you would fit in any of my pots." With that, she throws her head back and cackles.

It _could_ just be chance, I guess, but no one has said anything about pots around her. Nor about boiling. No one has mentioned the word _witch_ , even, which might be enough to conjure such thoughts independently.

Though I don't share Daveth's fear – of magic, of Morrigan, of this woman – even to me, her words, coupled with the sound of her shrieking laughter, is undeniably unsettling.

Daveth backs away, hand on his sword. His eyes are wild. "She's a witch, I tell you! You didn't believe me before, believe me now!" He's desperate, sweat streaking his face. Desperate to leave, but too loyal to abandon us.

Morrigan steps back a few paces, distancing herself, and crosses her arms. Something in the crook of her mouth, the rise of her brows, suggests that the situation is more dangerous than I've realized.

"We shouldn't be talking to her!" His knuckles, wrapped around the hilt of his sword, are white, but he hasn't drawn. Not yet. "We shouldn't _be_ here!" he pleads.

The panic in his yes wrenches at my heart, but I know we can't leave, and I don't know how to calm him.

I look to Morrigan, hoping for a clue, for an intercession. For anything. At first, her face betrays nothing, but softens when I don't look away. She turns her chin ever so slightly, the suggestion of a shake, then flicks her eyes toward Daveth and inclines her forehead.

A warning, if I've read it correctly.

If Alistair has recognized any danger, he gives no sign. If anything, he seems amused by the woman's hysterics. There'll be no help from him.

Hoping rather desperately that I'm not making a grave mistake, I take a single, long step to Daveth's side and close my hand over his.

To my surprise, Jory moves almost simultaneously, with almost the same intent. He steps up from behind, putting his hands on Daveth's shoulders, forcing him to be still.

"Daveth!" The knight's voice is surprisingly calm. Though he, too, is eyeing the old woman with distrust, he manages to sound almost soothing. "Daveth, listen to me. If she is truly a witch, do you wish to anger her? And if she is not, then you do her discourtesy."

"Oh! Oh!" The old woman is recovering her breath, practically gasping. She's looking at Jory now. "Oh, now there's a smart lad!" She wipes a tear, takes a deep breath, and squares herself. "Oh, do pardon me. As I was saying… what was I saying? Oh, yes. There's a smart lad, ser knight. Sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, but I do like to acknowledge a virtue when I see it, and anyhow, it's not as if _I'm_ the one who decides." She turns back to Daveth, her smile now quite friendly. "As for you, child. Believe as you will, in the time you have, but I've given my world already, and I stand by it: you have naught to fear from me."

I wouldn't describe Daveth as appearing reassured, exactly, and I doubt the old woman's assurance plays any part, but he does seem calmer with me and Jory on either side.

Morrigan, too, has relaxed, sidling back toward our little group.

 _"_ And you, young man." The old woman is addressing me now. "What of you? The paths that have chosen you to walk upon them – have they gifted you with a different view, or do you believe as these children do?"

"Begging my lady's pardon," I say, choosing words with care, "but I'm not sure I understand."

This sends the old woman into another spasm of laughter, though it's not so prolonged as the last. " _My lady!_ " she repeats. "Oh, how long has it been? Longer than an age! Yet, still I recognize proper manners. Funny, how you find them, always in the last place you look. Like stockings!"

Alistair chuckles and turns, glancing at Daveth. "Really? _This_ is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?"

"Bloody fool," Daveth spits.

Daveth's right, I realize. Alistair _is_ a bloody fool. I've been trying to excuse it away, trying to rationalize his behavior since the Circle encampment, but it's no longer possible. We are standing beneath sunshine that should not exist, after a journey that cannot be properly be recalled, before a woman who knows what she should not and whose daughter has wielded magic against which we could not hope to stand. And Alistair resorts to mockery.

There's only the one explanation, and Daveth has struck on it.

Thank the gods, the old woman is not offended. As with most everything, it seems, she finds Alistair's remark amusing. "Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she'd never admit it. Oh, how she dances beneath the moons!"

As her mother succumbs to another fit of laughter, Morrigan sighs and rolls her eyes. For a moment, I can actually imagine her as a daughter, and this woman as her mother.

"They did not come to listen to your wild delusions, mother," says Morrigan. "Nor could you embarrass me in the telling, if that is your goal, for I care no what they think."

"Oh no?" The old woman regards Morrigan with something like surprise, then shakes her head. "Ah, well. Sometimes I forget how little you see. But it's true enough, in its own way. Now…what were we saying? Oh, yes! You, young man: I was asking what _you_ see, as this path draws you along? Not more than my daughter, I think, but perhaps you see more than your friends?"

"I fear I still don't understand," I say, inclining my head politely. "Have you seen my path, good lady?"

"Oh, yes," she replies amiably. "I've seen the path behind you. And the one ahead, for whatever that is worth. Fortunes change. So do paths. Someone told me once that I see too much. The truth is, I see barely enough."

Her eyes drift away again, to that point, off in the distance, that the rest of us can't see. Her voice changes, too, becoming hushed.

"One minute you're in love, so much in love that you can't imagine anything wrong ever happening. And the next you're betrayed. Your love has been ripped from you like your own leg, and you swear you'd do anything to make those responsible pay. You'd do anything for vengeance."

She is silent for a long time, then. Lost in thought, I think, or perhaps in memory. Slowly, her eyes begin to shift their focus, drifting away from the unseen. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, caressing.

"And sometimes," she says, "your path _does_ lead you there. Sometimes it changes the world. You're not the first I've told, of course. We Fereldens – when we are wronged, our rage can shape the world. And there is rage enough in you. Oh, yes, rage more than you know, perhaps. But tell me this, Liam Cousland: if you find the vengeance you seek, what do you think it will do?"

At the sound of my name, I hear Daveth gasp.

Dimly, I recall that I've not told her my name. Why should that surprise me, though, when it's clear she knows more than she should? How much, I'm not sure, but this woman, if not a witch, is certainly gifted with sight beyond my own.

"What do I think my _vengeance_ will do," I repeat, mulling the words over as I speak them.

Her eyes still fixed on me, the old woman nods.

For the first time, I realize that the wolf pendant is chilled again. It has been for some time, I realize. Maybe since I entered this meadow. The cold isn't harsh, though – not like the spike of cold when Morrigan first appeared. More like the air on a sunny winter morning, when the snow sparkles and the sky is pale. Bracing, but welcome.

"I think…" I begin, then stop. That's not quite right. I try again: "I _hope_ to spill the blood that spilled the blood I loved. After that… after that, I don't know. You said rage can change the world, but I'm not thinking of the world. I just want to right the wrong."

"Ah, I see. And when this wrong is righted? What of your anger, then? Will it be sated?"

"I hope so," I say, truthfully. "I hope it fades away."

"A noble goal," the woman replies. "Pain never fades, but anger may. Or so I've been told." Yet again she chuckles, but bitterly now. "I wouldn't know, would I? No, I wouldn't. But tell me this: do you believe such a thing possible?" Another pause, another chuckle – this one warmer. "Do you believe _any_ of this?"

"I'm… I'm not sure _what_ I believe."

She nods approvingly. "A statement possessing more wisdom that it implies. Be always aware, Liam Cousland. Or is it always oblivious? I can never remember. So much about you is uncertain, and yet… I believe." She cocks her head to one side, appearing surprised. "Do I?" she asks herself, then breaks into a wide smile. "Why, it seems I do!"

Morrigan sighs, exasperated. "They did not come for your inanities, mother. You've had your fun, haven't you?"

The old woman regards Morrigan crossly for a moment, then shrugs. "Disrespectful, but not untrue. You are here for the treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, little Templar, your precious Grey Warden seal wore off long ago." She slips one hand into a pocket of her dress, and removes a packet of papers bound together with those same red ribbons. "I have protected these," she says, as Alistair's jaw drops, "for many, many years."

"You… you protected them?" Alistair repeats.

"Yes." The woman walks down the steps, holding them out for him to take. "And why not? I have always respected the Wardens. Perhaps more than they respect themselves."

Still slack-jawed, Alistair steps forward, accepting the proffered treaties.

"Th – thank you."

"It was no bother."

She drops her hand to her side, holding it open. To my surprise, Madra steps forward, nuzzling the old woman's palm gently. Their eyes meet, and the woman smiles again, the same warm smile as when she first studied my hound.

Madra lifts her chin expectantly, and receives a scratch under her jaw.

"That's a good girl," the old woman coos. "You have a part to play, too, don't you? But you already know that, don't you?"

Again, Madra barks happily. She licks the woman's hand once, then returns to my side, tail-stump wagging.

"Now," the woman continues, her smile fading. "Take the treaties to your commander, and tell him this Blight's threat is greater than even he realizes. Perhaps a warning will make a difference. It never does but… one can always hope."

"Pray tell, madam," I begin, and she smiles at me approvingly. She may be batty, and a witch, but she's quite fond of manners. "What do you mean, when you say that this Blight's threat is greater than the commander realizes?"

She laughs. "What do you _think_ I mean, young man? Either the threat is more, or they realize less. Perhaps the threat is nothing. Or perhaps they realize nothing. Or perhaps I am simply an old woman with a penchant for moldy pastries!" She follows this with another laugh, but this one is hollow. It fades slowly, her eyes drifting away, back into that lost stare.

With that, she turns and walks back up the steps, across the porch, to her rocking chair. She lifts the wicker basket, turns, and settles back into her chair.

"But do not mind me," she says, her voice subdued. She does not look up. "You have what you came for. Now, do what you can."

Morrigan, who has been watching her mother with visible concern, turns swiftly toward us. "Time for you to go then," she announces, and begins shooing us back up the path.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl." We're all startled to her the old woman's voice, clear and sharp again, all the melancholy shed away. She is still looking down, but her hands are frantically working, threading a ribbon around a pinecone. "These are _your_ guests. They should be treated accordingly. See them safely back to their king."

"Oh," Morrigan says, sounding decidedly less than thrilled. "Very well."

I've no idea what she expected, when she directed us to leave, or again when her mother spoke up unexpectedly – but it clearly wasn't this. With a resigned expression, she brushes past us, back the way we came.

"I will show you out of the woods, of course. Follow me."

…

…

…

 **CODEX: On the Korcari Wilds**

 _It is said that in the midst of the Black Age, when werewolves stalked the lands of Ferelden in numbers that kept every farmholder indoors and a hound on every doorstep, a powerful arl of the Alamarri peoples stood and declared that he would put an end to the threat. His arling stood on the border of the dark forest on the southern border of the Ferelden Valley, and he claimed that the werewolves used the forest to launch their midnight assaults on humanity._

 _For twenty years, this arl led an army of warriors and hounds deep into the forest. In his hunt for the werewolves, he slew not only every wolf he came upon, but also every member of the Chasind wilder folk. Any one of them, he said, could harbor a demon inside and thus be a werewolf in disguise. For twenty years, the forest rang with screams, and the rivers ran red._

 _The tales say that an old Chasind woman found all her sons dead at the arl's blades. She pulled one of those very blades from one son's heart and plunged it into her own chest, cursing the arl's name as she did so. Where her blood touched the ground, a mist began to rise. It spread and spread until it was everywhere in the forest. The arl's army became lost, and it is said that they died there. Others say they wander still. The ruins of his arling stand to this day, filled with the ghosts of women waiting eternally for their husbands to return._

 _The forest of the legend is, of course, the Korcari Wilds. There are as many legends about the great southern forest as there are shadows, or so the saying goes._

 _The Chasind wilder folk have made their home there since mankind first came to these lands, and the wildlands spread as far into the south as anyone has ventured. Beyond the mists are vast tracts of snow, white-capped mountains, and entire fields of ice. It is a land too cold for mankind to survive, yet the Chasind eke out an existence even there, and they tell of horrors beyond the Wilds that the lowland folk could not begin to comprehend._

 _To most, Ferelden simply ends with the Korcari Wilds: There is nothing beyond. The Wilds is a land of great trees, wet marshes and dangerous monsters. What more need be said?_

Excerpted from _Land of the Wilders_

by Mother Ailis, Chantry scholar, 9:18 Dragon

…

The Chasind "wilders" have lived in the Korcari Wilds since the first wars with the Alamarri drove them southward a millennium ago. According to their own lore, they had always been a forest-dwelling people, adapted quickly to their new home. Game and fish are plentiful in the wetlands, and the Chasind thrived.

For a time, they and the hill-dwelling Avvars were true threats to the northern lowlands. The Tevinter Imperium had arrived and was hard-pressed to keep back the waves of invasions from the south and the west. In fact, the fortress of Ostagar was built specifically to watch for Chasind hordes venturing north of the tree line. It was not until the legendary warrior Hafter soundly defeated the Chasind in the first half of the Divine Age that the question of their ability to contest the lowlands was settled permanently.

Today, the Chasind are considered largely peaceful, though their ways are still primitive compared to our own. In the Korcari Wilds, they live in strange-looking huts built on stilts, or even on platforms built into the great treetops. They paint their faces and are split into small tribes ruled by shamans, like those amongst the Avvars. There are many tales of these shamans having learned their magic from the "Witches of the Wilds," witches that inspire as much terror as they do awe and gratitude even if there is no definitive proof they exist. In particular, the tale of Flemeth, the greatest witch of the wilds, is celebrated amongst all tribes.

While there is no way to know how many there are in the Wilds today, the few travelers and settlers that pass through the forests tell of Chasind eking out an existence even in the frozen wastelands of the far south. One can assume that should the Chasind ever organize themselves once more, we might have reason to fear them here in Ferelden. We ignore them at our peril.

Excerpted from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_

by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar


	15. The Joining

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:** _The Joining_

 **I'm not sure when Morrigan left us.** Standing at the top of the cliff, looking back at the great forest that marks the Wilds' northern border, the cry of a raven echoing in my ears, I could swear she was just walking beside me. But when I focus, I can't exactly place her among the trees. Certainly, she did not scale the cliff with us. Although, come to think of it, I can't remember the climb at all.

Just like the journey to meet Morrigan's mother, nothing about our return to Ostagar feels quite right. My memories are disjointed, for one, like looking through a broken mirror. And for another, it's all gone far too quickly. Though I cannot see the sun itself, the glare behind the clouds tells me it is only midafternoon.

How that can be, I don't know. We fought the darkspawn at noon, maybe even later. It took us hours of hiking through forests and swamps to find the ruins, and who knows how much longer we journeyed to retrieve the treaties at the strange, sunlit clearing. It should be dusk, at least.

When we first set out, Morrigan said she would take us by hidden paths. She used those words exactly. I remember, because Alistair immediately accused her of leading us into the Deep Roads. She laughed at him, a full laugh, throwing back her chin and closing her eyes. "I could, if you wish. Were they not teeming with darkspawn vermin, that path would be easy enough. But I know a way that is easier still."

A hidden path, she said. A preternatural path, more likely.

"Fear not, little Wardens," she said, later on. I'm not sure when, exactly, but we were passing through unfamiliar ruins. We had drawn our swords, in fear of… something. Something that snaked through the branches high above us, something huge and long, and seeming to possess far too many legs. Whatever it was, it moved fast, showering us with pine needles and dead leaves. "No harm will come to you, so long as you walk with me."

I, at least, hardly found this reassuring. She must have sensed it, too.

"You should be grateful," she said. "Creatures such as that one ensure that no darkspawn will find this path we walk. Nor any other living creature, for that matter."

No other living creature, she said. Did we pass among spirits, then? Through the Fade, perhaps, accompanying the dead?

Ever since fire exploded along the outpost walls, this day has been positively steeped in magic. And that's to say nothing of the rune buzzing insistently whenever it thinks I ought to pay attention, or the wolf pendant turning to fiery ice when … well, when it feels like it, I guess. I had assumed the pendant went cold in the presence of magic, but it didn't change temperature at all during this strange journey.

What to make of all this, I haven't the faintest idea. It all makes my head spin.

…

" **Ho there – Oh! It's you!"** Sergeant Cormac looks as surprised to see us as I am to see him.

Some haze must still be hanging in my mind, because I don't remember walking from the top of the cliff to the palisade, either.

The sergeant, standing atop the fortification, waves an arm, and his men push the gate open. He hops down from the wall and meets us inside. Neither Garret nor Marian Hawke are here, but I recognize a few of the other soldiers from yesterday.

"Didn't expect to see you lot so soon," he says. "Or at all. Couple of our boys and a whole gaggle of Wilders came through, not more than an hour back, said you lot had gone further into the Wilds. They thought you were good as dead - thought you were looking for darkspawn or some such nonsense."

His brow knits suddenly, as he notices our injuries.

"Guess you found some of them, then. You all right?"

It strikes me that I have, in fact, been in pain for some time. My injured leg will barely hold my weight, and my shoulder throbs. How I've made it so far, in such a sorry state, I don't know; why I am only just noticing is similarly puzzling. Another mystery to chalk up to magic, I suppose. If that's the case, though, I wish Morrigan were still with us; now that I can feel it, the pain is so acute I almost wretch.

"We'll live," Alistair says. He sounds exhausted.

"Right…" Sergeant Cormac looks unconvinced, especially as he studies me. "You need anything? Food or drink? Help back to your camp?"

"We'll be fine," Alistair insists. "Have you seen Commander Duncan?"

The sergeant shakes his head, but he's still studying me with concern.

"The soldiers that came through earlier," I say. "And the Wilders. How many were they?"

"Just two of our boys." He shakes his head bitterly. "All that's left of the patrol I told you was lost. Fuckers got the rest of them, but I guess you know that. The one of them is down at the infirmary, had two of my boys take him there. I guess the other fellow's making his report. Not that anyone tells me nothing, mind you."

"And the Wilders?"

"A couple women. Gaggle of children. An old man. From what I gathered, most of their tribe got cut down, too."

I nod my thanks. At least the survivors all made it back to Ostagar. What becomes of them next, I have no idea, but I'll take this small victory.

…

 **Roaring fire frames Duncan's silhouette,** its warm light dancing in the reflection of the commander's silver armor.He's facing us, the bonfire at his back. His feet are planted firmly, his hands clasped at the small of his back. He's been waiting for us, I think, though how he knew we were coming, I can't guess.

The rest of the encampment is empty, save for Desmond, who sits on a barrel some distance away, whittling. Though he must hear us coming, the young man doesn't acknowledge us, nor so much as turn his head.

"So," Duncan says solemnly, stepping toward us. The fire is so bright, it's hard to look at him. "You return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?"

I expect Alistair to answer, but I find he's stepped aside, leaving Jory, Daveth, and I in a rough line. Glancing at the other recruits, I see Jory's jaw is set.

"Weren't easy," Daveth says. "But, yeah, it's done."

"It is never easy," Duncan replies.

Then he takes another step closer, and holds out his hand expectantly. It takes us a moment to catch on, but then we dig in pockets and pouches and, one by one, pass him the vials of darkspawn blood. Duncan accepts them reverently, like he's handling priceless antiques. He rolls each one over in the palm of his hand, then gently secures them in tiny sleeves sewn into one of his cross-belts.

"And the treaties?" he asks.

"We found them," Alistair answers. He's already removed them from his pack. They're still bound in the red ribbon. "But they weren't at the outpost. There were darkspawn there, coming up from the Deep Roads. They almost overran us at the tower, but there was a woman there – a mage, I think. She just… appeared, right after some raised walls of fire to keep the darkspawn out. She took us to her mother, and her mother gave us the treaties. They were both very… odd."

This, I think, may be the understatement of the week.

"Were they Wilder folk?" Duncan inquires.

"I don't think so. I think they were _apostates_." Alistair says the word with distaste. "Powerful ones, too, if I had to guess."

Duncan furrows his brow, but does not immediately respond. Instead, he undoes the ribbons and opens the parchment. His eyes flick across whatever is written inside each of three pages. Then he re-folds the parchment, reties the ribbon, and returns the packet to Alistair.

"These are the treaties we sought. I know you were once a Templar," he says heavily, "but Chantry business is not ours. Whatever these women were, whatever their purpose, they have aided our cause. Let us focus on the joining."

Alistair nods, albeit reluctantly, and Duncan turns his attention back to the three of us.

"I've had the Circle mages preparing in your absence. With the blood you have retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately. The others of our Order already await us at the old temple." He sighs, and looks briefly skyward before continuing. "As you have been told, we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Any of us could pay the price been killed on the way to Ostagar, or in the Wilds. We may all fall tomorrow, on darkspawn blades. Yet I must warn you, fate may decree that you pay that price tonight, as well."

Jory expels an angry hiss, but doesn't speak. None of us do. It's not unexpected news, not with all the secrecy and the talk of sacrifice, but it is still a heavy thing to hear spoken aloud.

Then Daveth steps forward, hands out, palms up. "Let's get to it, then. Been hearing all about it, going on weeks now. Time to have it over with, you ask me."

"I agree," Jory says, surprising me – surprising us all, I think. "Let's have it done."

"Soon enough," Duncan says. "I will take my leave now, and make the final preparations. You should each take a few minutes to yourselves. If there are any arrangements you wish made, should you fall in the next days, put them to paper. Desmond or Alistair can help, if you do not have ink or paper, or if you require assistance with writing. Once you have finished, Alistair will escort you to the temple. Oh, and Liam? You must leave Madra here, with Desmond. The Joining is for Wardens, and Wardens alone."

Although I'm not sure how a hound could threaten Duncan's veil of secrecy, I nod. If there's any chance the ritual will claim my life, as Duncan has said, I suppose I don't want Madra there. She'll be heartbroken no matter when she discovers my death, but if she's actually there to see me dying, who knows how she'll react. I'd hate for her to kill any of the Wardens, or have to be killed herself.

"Alistair," Duncan continues. "We will expect you at sunset. Tell me: are _you_ prepared?"

"Yes, Duncan." Alistair's voice is unusually soft. Broken, almost. I turn to look at our guide, to see if perhaps he's suffered some injury I hadn't noticed before, but I find he's turned himself almost fully away, so none of us can see his face. "I'm ready," he says, but he doesn't sound ready.

"Very well," Duncan says. "We will await you at the temple."

With that, he's gone, climbing back up the side of the amphitheater.

For a moment, we're all silent: Jory seething, Daveth flexing his fingers, me lost in thought. Alistair, still not looking at us.

Then Daveth says he doesn't have much to write down, or anyone to send it to anyway. He's joking, or trying to.

Alistair waves him off and begins to stump away. "Desmond can help you with any writing," he says. He sounds like he's about be sick.

"Well… fuck," Daveth says, and begins to kick at dirt. "I'm out of excuses then, aren't I?"

Overhead, the clouds are dark grey. Next to me, Madra leans her head against my knee and whines. She's picking up on all our moods, and not sure what to make of it.

Neither am I, for that matter. This is all quite somber. There's a sense of foreboding, almost of dread. I'm not sure what I expected, but this certainly isn't it.

Then again, nothing has been as expected, not since… well, take your pick, I suppose. I could point to the arrival at Ostagar, or to my surreal walk among the Halla, to the lovemaking with Iona's spirit beneath Fen'Harel's statue; or I could look further back, to the sack of Highever, the violence that tore my life to shambles. But really, the world has been shifting underfoot since the first rumors of the Blight reached our ears, at the beginning of summer. I just didn't choose to see the changes until Duncan's shadow darkened my father's Great Hall, and Aeron submitted himself to the Order. Since then, every day has folded in on the one before it, a great cascade of dissonance and pain and misplaced expectations.

All this change – it began with the Blight, and the Wardens. It will continue tonight, I'm sure. But I still have responsibilities back in the life that came before, and I ought to see to them.

I lead Madra over to where Desmond is seated. He nods politely, asks if I need anything, then provides a quill, ink, and parchment on request. He's not cheerful, exactly, but at least he's less po-faced than Alistair or my companions.

Before he lets me go, he even insists on re-bandaging my leg and shoulder. A salve cools the burning in the bite, though he looks concerned when he studies the swelling. I try not to look; I can feel the poison with every heartbeat, even through the medicine. "It's good you can undergo the Joining tonight," he says, echoing Alistair's vague assurance from hours earlier.

His solution for my leg is much more practical – a new dressing, and a tight wrap over the cut, and around my ankle, too. "It's probably sprained," he says, as he circles the cloth around my heel. "Needs rest, but this will have to do."

Although I'm still limping once he's done, I find I can support more weight than before, and with less pain. I climb halfway up the amphitheater's side, away from the others, and sit.

Finding the right words is harder than I expect. I need to write to Fergus, I know that. I just don't know what to write.

Until now, I've been trying not to think about my first conversation with Fergus. How do you tell a man that his wife and unborn child are murdered along with his mother and father, or that his birthplace is in the hands of traitors and his family name teeters on the brink of extinction? How to say that I left his young son, his only heir, grievously injured, in the care of strangers, to be spirited away into hiding in a strange city?

How to explain that I was there when the blades fell and the flames consumed our home, and yet the blood was still spilled? How to beg forgiveness for sending Oren off alone?

I suppose I thought it would all come out in a rush, when I first saw him. I know he would not blame me, that he would fold me in his arms and that we could weep together, weep for all we've lost. But now that I am forced to order these thoughts, to write them into reality, I am at a loss. The tip of the pen touches the paper a dozen times, but nothing follows.

At last I set the pen down and lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands over my eyes. A week ago, these thoughts would have wracked my body with sobs. Now, I'm just exhausted. My whole body is pain, I'm hungry, my throat is parched, but I just want to rest. I can feel sleep seeping in at the back of my mind, can feel my thoughts falling forward, through my arms.

Whether only a moment passes, or whether I actually sleep for a few minutes, I'm not sure, but when I jerk upright, startled by something, clarity has found me.

There's no way to pen this letter with any grace. We are in a war, at best; at worst, if we fail here in Ostagar, we stand at the edge of the world's ending. Facts are all that matter.

 _My dearest brother,_ I begin. _I must tell you what has happened since you left Highever, and none of it is good news. My heart breaks to write these tidings, but if we do not meet again, you must know the truth…_

…

 **We pass the trip to the temple in welcome silence.** There's nothing to say that we haven't already said, for one thing. But more than that, I find that I am comfortable inside my own thoughts. After these last weeks, desperately chasing nay distraction, this a pleasant discovery indeed.

It was all in the letter. With every word put down, every failure confessed and every grief named, the weight on my soul lessened. I'm reminded of childhood relief, felt after confessing some hidden wrongdoing to Mother or Nan. It is some sort of superstition, a vestige of Brother Aldous' religious instruction, but in admission I have found absolution. And now that the burden is lifted, I cannot say how I endured it as long as I have.

Though the others trudge, there is a lightness in my step that conquers exhaustion and even injury. Come what may, during the Joining or the battle that must surely follow, I can at least face it with a measure of peace.

…

 **Once upon a time,** the Temple at Ostagar must have been breathtaking. In its day, its grandeur must have kindled a sense of awe, especially among the faithful. As we approach, even I cannot help but marvel at its size, and scope, and at the way it skeleton still stands, defiant of time and decay, framed against the slate grey sky by the day's last, dying light.

The temple itself, a rectangular cathedral with peaks as tall as Highever's Keep, was built atop a man-made hill of marble. Steps have been cut into the marble, so that pilgrims could begin the climb from any of the temple's four sides. Broad pedestals interrupt the staircase at regular intervals; they might have held braziers, or been adorned by statues, or used as altars for blood sacrifices. Now, they collect leaves. Their placement would funnel pilgrims toward great archways in the temple walls – one at each end, and two on the longer sides.

At the highest of the pedestals, perhaps twenty yards from the nearest entrance, Alistair motions that we should wait here. He continues until he is just outside the archway, but does not enter. Instead, he slumps against the temple's mossy wall, turning his face away from us.

I sit on the steps, grateful for the rest. Daveth leans against a pedestal. Jory, a few steps below, remains standing.

"Something weighs on his conscience," Jory murmurs, nodding up at Alistair. "The more I learn of this Joining, the less I like it. Even _Duncan_ now admits it may claim our lives, before battle is even joined."

"Oh, not _this_ again," Daveth groans.

Jory furrows his brow and exhales heavily. "Tell me, does nothing trouble you? Why all these damned tests, I ask you? Why all this secrecy? Have we not earned our place?"

"Maybe it's just tradition. Maybe they're just trying to annoy you. Honestly, how the fuck should I know? How the fuck should _you_ know?"

"What I know is this: we have fulfilled his every demand – whetted our blades with darkspawn blood, abandoned innocents in the Wilds, retrieved his fool treaties. And yet there is one more hurdle, one more ritual." Jory spits. "Are you both truly blind? Do you not see, there is some trickery afoot! Some evil intent in the blood or the sorcery, some lie yet to be discovered!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Daveth pushes off the pedestal, throws his hands in the air. "I've had just about enough of your bloody sniveling, Ser Knight!"

Jory's face burns crimson and he begins to advance. Though I've no interest in their bickering – nor, at this point, any opinion on who might be right – I stand. "Calm down!" I demand, stepping between them. "The both of you!"

I've got them both at arm's length, and hand on each of their chests. Daveth glares down coldly; Jory glares back up, breathing heavily. Neither of them really sees me. I turn from one face to the other, and then further, to Alistair, hoping for some intercession. But if the young Warden has noticed the confrontation, he is ignoring it. Typical.

"I don't like this any more than you, Jory," I say, not because it's true, but because it's what he needs to hear. "But we gave our oaths on faith, faith we placed in Duncan in the reputation of the Wardens. We came this far on faith, and now that faith is tested, I don't see how we can turn aside."

The knight's eyes lower.

"But you're not wrong," I tell him, and then turn to face Daveth. Brokering a truce will require the both of them, and I have a strong premonition that we need to bury this axe before entering the temple. Whatever waits for us inside, I'd rather face it together. "We _don't_ know what's coming. Jory's right – we know we're going to war, we all knew that. But no one warned us that we might pay with our lives just to be called Wardens. That's not the same thing, and you must know it."

"And if do – if I agree with you – then what?" Daveth's face is still cold. "Would any of us have come along, if they did? Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right? We knew _that_ when we signed up. Least, I did."

"Yes," Jory says, his voice husky. "But all I know…" He stops, choking on his own words. He's ashamed of himself, I realize. "I only know that my wife is at Caer Bronach, heavy with child, and I… I am now asked, for the first time, to gamble my life and my honor against a ritual. If they had warned me… it just doesn't seem honest."

Though I'm watching Jory, my hand is still on Daveth's chest. I can't see the cutpurse, but I can feel him soften. He sighs, and now the fight has gone out of both of them. I drop my arms.

"I don't know why we keep bloody going round and round," Daveth admits, and leans back again. "For what it's worth, I don't think you a coward, ser knight. Not really. Not after I seen the way you fight. I just… well, you saw them darkspawn, didn't you? What they done to them Wilders? Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife, your little one, from all of that?"

"I… yes, of course. I just… it's just that I've never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade alone."

"Then it's really no different, is it?" Daveth shrugs. "That's all I been trying to say. From some bloody ritual, or on one of the beast's blades, it don't matter. Maybe you'll die Maybe we'll all die. But if nobody stops this Blight, we'll all die for sure. I'd sacrifice a lot more than my life if I knew it would end this Blight. You would too, I wager, or you wouldn't be here at all."

Whatever else might be left to say, if anything, is interrupted by movement at the archway. Alistair steps back, out of the way, as a column of Circle mages exit the temple. There are six in total, though neither Wynne nor Uldred are among that number. They walk briskly, heads down and cowls pulled over their heads, looking neither at us nor at the four armored Templars who escort them.

Just as the mages and their escort are passing us, two more people emerge. One I recognize as Knight-Lieutenant Mason, from the Circle encampment; unlike his comrades, he is not wearing a helmet, though he walks with one hand on the hilt of his sword. He follows just a step behind his companion, an elderly woman with a regal bearing. She wears robes of fine silk emblazoned with the Chantry sunburst, and her crimson miter appears to be inlaid with actual gold.

"That's the Revered Mother," Jory whispers, unnecessarily, once she has passed.

"Good," Daveth says, not bothering to lower his voice. "Maybe that'll finally shut you up about all that 'black magic' tripe. Bloody Chantry mother put her blessing on it."

Jory ignores him, but Ser Mason turns and glares briefly.

"It's time," Alistair calls. His voice still sounds weak, tremulous almost. He's standing in the archway now, along with Korith and Andrej. All of them look quite serious. That's nothing new for Andrej, I suppose, who always seems to look like he's officiating a mass funeral, but Korith seems uncharacteristically somber, and Alistair's complexion is positively corpselike.

Hardly encouraging.

…

 **From what little I can see in the flickering torchlight,** the temple was even grander within than without. It was one great room, undivided by any wall, unencumbered by any stairs. A single platform, half a man's height, occupies the furthest wall; there were windows there, judging the by the regularity of the gaps in the stonework. In better light, or in the absence of these damned clouds, they must have offered a commanding view of the Wilds. I can imagine ancient Magisters standing there, hands raised, outlined by light streaming in through the windows, as the faithful supplicants walked or knelt on the same stones we now cross.

Now there is only darkness and silence, each interrupted only by the flicker of torches hanging on the walls, and the crackle of a small fire built on the platform. The Wardens are there, gathered around the fire and a small wood table. I think this is all of them – every single Warden from the encampment, all but Desmond. They're watching us, listening to the echo of our footsteps as we approach.

We pass cracks in the wall, where trees have grown through, and climb over chunks of fallen roof. We pass more statues, armored knights wearing helmets and cowls. All the while, we are watched, as though our every step is part of the ritual itself. The mood is somber, reverent either. I'm reminded of funerals, and of the long, sacred silences between the sacraments of a Chantry service.

When we reach the platform, the Wardens step back, forming a half-circle around us. Alistair fades into their ranks, but Duncan steps forward, standing beside the fire. He rests his fingers on the wood of the table, beside a trio of simple pewter chalices.

He looks each of us in the eye, and then begins to speak.

"At last, we come to The Joining." In this emptiness, his voice is deep and strong, enriched by the ancient cathedral's high walls and distant ceiling. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood at the verge of annihilation. All the might of kings and all the power of magic had given way before the darkspawn, and for a time it seemed that the mankind's light might be forever extinguished. But our most learned had studied our enemy, and in time we divined their nature, and in our understanding, we found their weakness." Slowly, deliberately, Duncan reaches into his tunic and removes the glass vials. He sets each one on the table, beside a chalice. "So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered the darkspawn Taint"

Next to me, I feel Jory tense, hear his intake of breath. He was right, I think, but without any sense of shock. The peace I hold inside remains untouched.

"Now," Duncan continues, "as the first Grey Wardens did before us, and we did before you, the bitter cup is yours to partake. Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do will be forever changed. We become immune to the Taint. We can sense it in our enemy, and we can use it to slay the Archdemon. This is why the Joining is a secret. This is the price we pay. _This_ is the source of our power, and of our victory."

He pauses, taking time to look at each of us again in turn. Whatever he sees as his eyes flick between us, his own face remains implacable. The lines are deeply etched deep, betraying nothing, and yet I am immediately reminded of the sadness I saw days before – when we spoke on the hill south of Lothering, near the Dread Wolf's statue. There is weight behind his eyes, no matter how stoic his gaze.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but those words have been said since the first. I have said my part. Now, Alistair, if you would?"

From behind Duncan, Alistair shuffles forward. He's looking down at his feet. I can't tell if he's nervous, or reverent, or ashamed.

"Join us, brothers," he says, and his voice falters. "Join us… in the shadows, where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry on the duty that cannot be forsworn. Sh- should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you."

As he speaks the next words, dozens of voices join his: "In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice."

As soon as the voices fade, Duncan lifts one of the chalices. There is liquid already within, the color of white wine. To this, Duncan adds the contents of one of the vials.

"Daveth," he says solemnly, "step forward."

As he obeys, the cutpurse brushes his elbow and the back of his hand against mine. It is a familial gesture, reassuring and affectionate.

"You were called upon to submit yourself for the greater good. You were the first present to answer this calling. Therefore you are the first to drink."

Duncan proffers the cup, and Daveth accepts, shoulders square. He lifts it to his lips, tilts his head back.

"From this moment forward," Duncan says, "you are a Grey Warden."

Daveth swallows, lowers the cup, and bows to Duncan. Then he turns slightly, meeting my eyes. He offers a nod, letting me know it's all right.

And then, in an instant, it is not right. Daveth gags, lurching forward like he's choking on his own tongue. He doubles over, clutching his stomach, mouth working in eerie silence.

I try to take a step forward, to help him, but strong arms block my way.

Daveth is on one knee now. He looks up for a moment, and I see his eyes have rolled back in his head. Yellow foam flecks his lips as his body begins to shake, every muscle spasming and twitching. He chokes once, loudly, and blood spatters his shirt. Then he collapses forward.

Beside me, Jory is wheezing.

My feet may as well be fused to the ground. I can't move. I can't look away.

On the ground now, in the fetal position, Daveth has stopped trembling. Blood trickles from his nose, eyes, and mouth. In the cold evening air, steam rises from his skin.

"No," Jory says. "No! Maker's breath, no!"

There is movement of some sort, the knight stumbling away, but I can't turn to look. I am transfixed by Daveth's face, frozen in a mask of agony. His eyes are still open, still white.

"Jory," Duncan says, pushing past me, warning in his voice. "Jory, there is no turning back now. You were called upon –"

"No!" Jory repeats. I turn, and find he has backed away, toward the edge of the platform. His face is wild, panicked. "No! You ask too much! There's no honor in this!"

He is boxed in, the Wardens all around, but he continues to sidestep, trying to weave through them. They're having none of it. Korith and Andrej block the steps, and soon Jory's back is against a stone wall. Duncan is walking toward him, slowly.

"Jory," he repeats, calm and sad.

"You would force this on me?" the knight demands. "It is as I feared, then! Exactly as I feared! I would test myself, but pure chance? I… I have a wife and child! A child!" His eyes dart wildly, pleading with cold faces. His hand is on his sword.

Alistair has appeared beside me, and has a hand on my shoulder. I'm not sure if he means to restrain me, or to steady me, or to stead himself. But it doesn't matter – even if I could fight through the shock, I don't know what I would do. I don't know if I would do anything.

With a sharp hiss, Jory's blade leaves its sheath. He weaves it back and forth, trying to keep the Wardens back.

"Had I known… you should have told me! This – this is blood magic!"

In some corner of my soul, I feel pity for Jory. Scorn, too. But these feelings – all feelings – are distant, buried deep beneath the sickening weight of inevitability. This is the path we have chosen, or the path chosen for us. I am helpless to turn aside. I wish Jory would realize that he is, too.

"Jory," Duncan repeats. "Jory. You were called to submit yourself to the greater good. You –"

"Back!" Jory lunges forward, the tip of his sword jabbing toward Duncan. The elder Warden is still several paces away – there is no real threat – but as Jory moves, something in Duncan's poise changes. It doesn't surprise me when he draws his knives.

"So this – this – I see now! You would murder me if I do not submit to your sorcery!" Jory begins to laugh, a madman's laugh. And then, as I've feared, he fixes on me. "You!" he calls. "Liam! Ser Cousland – surely you will not stand by?"

As I stare back, silent, I see realization dawning in his eyes. And then I see his spirit crumble, the last shreds of courage and hope lost in the night.

At last, I regain some agency. Some shred of self-determination. I use it to look away.

The other Wardens remain as they are, silent observers. None has made a move for his weapon.

"Jory," I say, staring at the fire. The words are hollow, rote. They almost strangle on the knot in my throat. "Jory," I say. "Put down the sword."

"Listen to your comrade," Duncan implores.

But it won't matter. Jory won't yield. He can't give in, any more than I can change anything that's happened. That's about to happen. It is already in motion, and all we can do is watch. I try to surrender to this, to accept fate's embrace; I'm hoping to find the same peace here that I did in confession.

Instead, I choke out a single sob.

Off to the side, intentionally out of view, there is a rush of movement, followed by the clash of steel.

"Maker take you!" Jory bellows. "Maker take you all!"

More movement, another joining of blades, and then the sick, wet _thunk_ of a blade finding flesh. Jory gasps, and I know it's over.

I swipe at my eyes, and force myself to look again.

The knight is limp, supported in Duncan's arm even as Duncan's blade remains hilt-deep between his ribs. His sword slips from his fingers, clattering on the stone. My stomach turns, but I can barely tell. It's like I'm watching something happen in a book, or listening to a story. I ought to feel more, I think.

"I am sorry, Jorry," Duncan says. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but we all hear it. "Truly sorry."

Slowly, gently, Duncan lowers the knight's body to the ground and rolls him onto his back. The knife is pulled clean in one swift movement, and then Duncan leans forward again, hunched over Jory. "From this moment forward," he says, "you are a Grey Warden."

Then he closes the knight's eyes and rises.

"None of you will speak of what you have just seen," he says. "No matter the manner of his last moments, Ser Jory died as one of us. So it is, and so it shall be remembered."

To my surprise, the other Wardens murmur assent.

"But the Joining is not yet complete." Duncan turns, wiping the blood from his hands, and walks up to me. "Liam," he says. "Step forward."

And I do, because what else is there?

I watch as he uncorks my vial, and adds its foul content to a chalice.

"You were called upon to submit yourself for the greater good. Of those who answered the calling, only you remain. Therefore, it falls now to you to drink."

He raises the chalice, expectantly.

Without any deliberate effort, I accept. Without any conscious thought, I raise the cup and drink.

The liquid is cold and smooth in my mouth, cold as ice, but it coats my tongue and scalds my throat. As Duncan continues to speak – pronouncing me a Grey Warden, from this moment forward – my world begins to spin.

Duncan's voice is distant, distorted.

The taste reminds me of wine, not white wine but red, floral and rich. It is metallic, too, like blood, and there is something foul beneath the flavor, something deep and rotten. I have to fight back the urge to vomit.

My knees buckle, and I realize I'm dying.

Pain like I've never felt stabs me between the eyes, and in a flash my vision is gone.

The urge to vomit is so strong, so overpowering. Every part of my body rejects what I've just drunk, but the muscles in my stomach are so tight that I cannot begin to heave. My bones will crack under the pressure. Blood pounds in my ears, my mouth, my eyes, my throat. Every heartbeat drives the pain in my head deeper.

Why won't I die?

…

 **And then, though my eyes are still squeezed shut, I can see.** Flashes of green, a green unlike any I've ever known. A green that is ethereal, born of other times and other sources than any green on this earth. The green light pierces through darkness, and the darkness, like the light, is the darkness of another world. It is deeper than any night, or any shadow; it has a substance all its own, a definition far more substantial than merely the absence of light.

Though I am still screaming, screaming so hard that I can feel blood in my throat, I cannot hear myself. The darkness has a noise all its own, a wordless speech or a song without tune, roaring and primal. It reminds me of the ocean, on a stormy day, or of an animal's dying cries.

There is movement against the green, flashes of motion between the spasms of darkness. Tracking the movement – _trying_ to track the movement – somehow makes everything else clearer. The green is _sky_ , I realize, far overhead, and the dark places are… clouds, of a sort. Certainly, they move and swirl like clouds in a high wind, but I'm not so sure. These are more like holes. Tearing, ripping holes in the sky, like looking up on a sunny day seeing swaths of a darkest night, void of any stars.

And suspended below the clouds – or tears – or voids – or whatever the fuck they are – suspended below them, yet still far above my mind's eye, outcroppings of rock float, weightless. Some are as large as mountains, blotting out whole swaths of this nightmare-scape; others are smaller, boulders that tumble slowly, like leaves in a pond. Some appear lifeless, nothing but rock and lichen; others sprout strange, sallow trees; and on still others, pales lights burn in empty buildings. Here and there, in the far distance, I see the spires of a bleak city.

Even in the delirium of my own death throes – and I am convinced, now, that I really am dying – my mind rebels, insisting that _this –_ all _of this – it's impossible._

I've heard it said that, at the moment of death, one sees a cascade of memories, the sum of their life, flashing before their eyes. But who would really know? Surely not the dead, who, they also say, tell no tales. It must be a wives' tale. There must only be delusion. Because, surely, this _is_ a delusion. There is no other explanation.

Yet still, I cannot dismiss what I see. My attention is drawn to something moving faster than the clouds, darting between those impossible floating islands of stone.

It is hard to get a good look. It's moving too quickly – disappearing at one moment behind a slowly-turning mountain, then appearing again, then lost against the black void of the cloud-things. And then it is there again, soaring on outstretched wings across the alien sky.

A great body, all speed and power. A long, twisting neck that rises from a ragged spine. Spikes at its joints, and claws on its legs.

A dragon.

Like nothing I could have imagined – like nothing the stories described – but surely a dragon, with white eyes and purple fire in its mouth.

The dragon is the source of the noise – the cacophony of roars, screams, and wordless speech. I had thought it came from the blackness, but now I understand it is actually the dragon.

Is the dragon the void?

I don't know what I expected from death. Certainly, these last weeks have taught me not to expect death to make sense. But – why _this_? Why _these_ images, _these_ sensations?

Funny, or maybe fitting, that my last thoughts will be confusion.

But then the beast begins to fade, the flashes of light giving way to longer and longer stretches of blackness, until, once again, I cannot see anything.

The roaring is gone. So is my screaming.

And, at last, I can let go.

In the end, it is a relief. As the darkness claims me, I feel my last breathe leave my lungs. It is the sweetest sensation I have ever known.

…

…

…

 **CODEX: The History of the First Blight**

 _Chapter 1 - The Second Sin_

 _Thedas is a land of fierce diversity, from the assassin-princes of Antiva to the faded griffons of the Anderfels, but in my travels, I have found one tale that unites the people of this land. It is a story of pride and damnation, and although the telling differs, the essence of the tale remains the same._

 _At the height of its power, the Tevinter Imperium stretched over much of Thedas, uniting the known world under the rule of the tyrannical magisters. It is said that the Old Gods whom the magisters worshipped gave them the knowledge of blood magic, and the magisters used this forbidden power to cement their rule. The blood of elven slaves and humans alike ran down imperial altars to fuel magister greed, the tales of their excesses so horrifying that one can only be grateful that blood magic is prohibited today._

 _But all that stands tall must eventually fall._

 _Perhaps they foresaw their ruin, or perhaps their pride knew no bounds, but whatever the reason, the magisters dared to open a magical portal into the Golden City at the heart of the Fade. They sought to usurp the Maker's throne, long left unattended in the Golden City after the Maker turned His back on His creations. They would storm heaven itself with their power and become as gods._

 _This is what the Chantry, in its oft-exercised tendency to understate, refers to as the second sin._

 _According to most versions of the tale, the magisters did indeed reach the Golden City and walked into the home of the Maker, where no living being before them had dared, or been able, to tread. But humanity is not meant to walk in heaven. The magisters were wicked with pride and other sins, and their presence tainted the Golden City. What once was a perfect, holy citadel became a twisted home of darkness and nightmares._

 _The magisters were expelled back through their gateway and cursed for their treachery. As the Golden City had been tainted, so were the magisters twisted and transformed into things of darkness—the very first of the darkspawn._

 _The Golden City, once a shining beacon at the heart of the Fade, became the Black City, a reminder of all that man's pride has cost._

Excerpted from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_

by Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar


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